


Led Away from the Darkness

by Deuslock, Foureyedfool



Series: Led Away from the Darkness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Blind Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Exploration, Falling In Love, First Time, Hybrid John, Kid Fic, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, No Underage Sex, Physical Disability, Protective John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Teen John, Teen Sherlock, Teenagers, Texting throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deuslock/pseuds/Deuslock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyedfool/pseuds/Foureyedfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock Holmes hadn't expected to lose his vision. Being without it was frustrating, difficult--nearly impossible, even. Right when he needs it most, a friend comes into his life--John Watson, a boy with a physical deformity of his own. They become fast friends, instantly realising how much they need one another, but Sherlock soon learns that there are far worse things to lose than his sight. The story starts when they're kids and continues on into their teens, and will eventually make it to their ages in the show and onward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had made it clear to his parents that he didn't want to go out with them. Over the past two years, his eyesight had become progressively worse and worse, until it had, last month, disappeared entirely. He could still picture it in his head, the tiniest sliver of blurred light, right in the center of his vision.

Now, it was gone. All of it was.

He hated it. Having to read books with his hands, not being able to see the image on the telly as it was playing, tripping on things that his mother or father left out (Mycroft never did; he was far too neat for that). It made him feel _silly,_ and falling was painful and embarrassing, and then his parents would come and help him up and treat him like a baby who couldn't even walk.

He was nearly nine years old. He wasn't a baby.

Even so, Sherlock felt a bit like one now. One minute, his mother had been right beside him. Sherlock hadn't been holding her hand, but he knew she was next to him because he could smell her perfume. Now, he wished that he _had_ held onto her, even if he was old enough to not need to. Being a big boy seemed to be nothing if you were as blind as a bat (an inaccurate saying, as Sherlock knew for a fact that bats weren't actually blind).

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't smell his mother's perfume. He couldn't hear her voice. He couldn't see her, obviously. He bit down on his lip and took a small step forward, but he suddenly realised, for the first time, how intimidating it was to walk about without having someone to hold on to, someone to guide him. His father had gone out only a few hours ago to get Sherlock a cane; why couldn't they have waited until he got back to go out? At least the he would be able to tap it in front of him to make sure he wasn't going to step in any holes...

He would look silly doing it, he knew, but it was a necessity. Besides, it would be far better to use a cane than to be like he was now, turning this way and that in the hopes that suddenly his sight would return and he would find his mother amongst the people that kept brushing past.

 

* * *

 

 

John was, as he usually found himself, alone that rare-sunny London morning.

Not _alone,_ because there were tons of people all around him, mums and dads, strollers being pushed, the big kids running around with their friends.

So many of them, and they all walked straight past John, who was sitting by himself with his back to a tree as he watched them all stroll past.

Mum told him it was very, very important he stay out of people's way, and 'never, _ever_ take off your cap, John. Ever.'

So he did.

He stayed where he was, because it was important to do what was told of him, while his father sat at a bench a ways away, not looking at John, but was talking to a strange woman wearing a big, floppy hat.

At least he had his toy for company, as he usually did. The little green soldier holding a gun who would point it wherever John positioned him. His favorite, as he had had it since before he could remember, as was evident by the teeth-shaped indents at the bottom.

He was feeling restless, like most nine-year old boys do when being forced to keep still for too long, but he knew that he could get away with some things with him mum, but hardly _anything_ with his dad.

He leaned his head back against the tree and sighed deeply and audibly, when his sharp eye caught something peculiar.

Amidst the sea of people, there was a boy who looked his own age, (which always made John's heart beat just a little faster in childlike excitement for more than one reason). But this boy with the dark, curly hair didn't look like most he had seen in the park that day. He wasn't laughing or smiling or playing with anyone.

He was all alone, like John.

And something was very wrong with him.

John didn't know what it was, but the way the boy turned around and around with his head lifted, like he were smelling for something, made John wonder...

What if... what if the boy was like John? John couldn't smell anything this far away, there were too many people around to distinguish one smell above the rest, but John never saw _anyone_ do that same motion before...

He felt his heart begin to beat a little quicker at just the thought.

John ran his tongue over his lower lip and glanced over to where his dad was still sitting, (a little bit closer now to the floppy-hat woman) before slowly getting to his feet. He brushed a bit of grass off his legs before clutching his action figure a little tighter in his hand before slowly walking over to the boy, making certain to keep his capped-head lowered.

When he reached the boy, he lifted his head again and took a deep breath before saying, very simply, "Hello."

That was what mum always told him to say when meeting new people, because she said it was what was polite.

"Are you looking for something?"

 

Sherlock froze immediately when he heard someone addressing him. He didn't know how he knew that they were, but something about the voice and its closeness to him, he just--he just knew. Somebody was talking, and they were talking directly to him.

His mother always told him not to talk to strangers. Father said the same thing, but his mother was the one who was overly insistent upon it, making sure that he always knew. Although, she hadn't said that as often ever since he had lost his sight. Maybe that was because she knew he would, at times, have to rely on strangers in order to get places safely.

Sherlock didn't like that. He knew he was only a child--but still a big boy; he would make sure everyone knew that--but that didn't mean he couldn't do anything by himself. He was smart! As a matter of fact, he was smarter than anyone else he had ever met.

Well. Besides Mycroft. But Sherlock didn't want to think about that, and he certainly wouldn't ever admit it. Mycroft would never let him live it down.

_'Are you looking for something?'_

The voice didn't _sound_ scary, or mean. In fact, he sounded like a boy, just like Sherlock. That made him feel a little more confident; after all, what could a person his own age do to him? Nothing, as far as he was concerned.

After clearing his throat, Sherlock turned his face towards the source of the voice. He had sunglasses on to cover his milky, blank eyes, but he could at least look like he was able to see.

"My mother," he answered as calmly as he could. Sherlock cleared his throat again and waved his hand, gesturing to the surrounding area. "She is--she's here somewhere." He bit down on his lip and then added, softly, "I think."

She wouldn't have left, would she? No. No, surely not. He couldn't see now, and it would be an adjustment for the whole family, that was what his parents always said, but they wouldn't just _leave_ him. Sherlock knew that, rationally, but it did nothing to stop his heart from beating quicker, louder, inside his tight chest.

"I'm trying to smell her perfume," Sherlock told the other boy, just so he could show off how smart he was in knowing what his mother wore. "Cashmere Mist. It--It has jasmine in it. And bergamot."

Not that he knew what 'bergamot' was, but it was a big word and he wanted to show, too, that he could say it.

"So, if you--if you don't mind, I need to...I need to get back to this. Smelling for her."

With that, Sherlock turned around, holding his hands out in front of him as he did so, as if he could find some sort of surface to support and balance himself on. He sniffed the air again, scowling when he couldn't find any trace of his mother. He couldn't even hear her.

 

John blinked a few times at the boy when he spoke. He had  absolutely no idea what a 'cashmere mist' was supposed to smell like, (and bergamot sounded more like a food than a smell, whatever that was). His mum didn't wear anything that had a fancy name. But she didn't wear a lot of smells these days, he supposed, because it was just too strong for him. John sneezed every time she hugged him and his eyes would burn from irritation. Harry's never did, and she always rolled her eyes at John like he was making it up, but he wasn’t! It _hurt._

"Can't you just--"

John watched the way the boy's hands went out in front of him, the way they shook just so, as though he were uncertain what he was meant to be touching...

Oh!

"You can't see! Why are you all alone?"

That didn't make any sense to John. He never met anyone that couldn't see before, but the people in the movies always had canes with them, or at least had a friend to walk with them. John may have only been nine, and _he_ was alone a lot, but even he knew that this boy should have his mum around.

John felt a tingling in his fingertips as he watched him and his chest felt suddenly tight. He turned his head over his shoulder to look for his dad, who still didn't seem to notice he was gone or talking to a stranger, so feeling brave, John looked back at the other boy.

"I'll help you find your mum. I know all sorts of smells. I don't know that one, that berger-bergamon thing, though. What does she look like? Oh. I mean--"

John could feel his nerves beginning to set in as he looked for the right words to say. Darn!

He leaned in, just briefly, and inhaled. Up close, he could smell this boy better. John was learning new smells every day, and this was no different. Something that smelt expensive, like the way a nice home might smell. Fresh linen masking a very mild earthy-scent, that made John feel very much grounded. And then there was something very slight; a sharp, sweet scent, right near the boy's collar that made John's nose crinkle.

"Come on."

He reached for the boy's hand and took it in his own, his small fingers wrapping around the other's boy's as he began to pull him gently forward. He didn't ask if it was okay, and his mum would scold him for it, but he _needed_ to help.

"What's your name?"

 

_'Why are you all alone?'_

Ha! Why indeed. Sherlock had asked himself that same question, wondering why his mother had allowed him to wander off and then getting annoyed when he realised he was making it sound in his own head as if he was helpless without her.

He _wasn’t._

Or maybe he was. But he didn't want to have to actually admit to that, and who could blame him? Nobody wanted to admit that they couldn't do anything without someone helping them, right?

Mycroft was like that. He didn't want to have to rely on people. He was very independent, all the time. He told Sherlock that he should be able to do things by himself, although he hadn't done that as often in the past month, ever since Sherlock had stopped being able to see. Mycroft wasn't as helpful as their parents, but he seemed to be just a little bit nicer than before.

Sherlock looked in the direction of his own hand when he suddenly felt the other boy touching it. He hadn't expected that, and normally he would have pulled away, just out of surprise if nothing else, but he didn't have much choice now, did he? If the boy could help him find his mother and get him out of this mess it was worth it, wasn't it?

"My name is Sherlock," he answered. "And I do know what my mother looks like. I used to be able to see; I wasn't--I wasn't _born_ like this. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She's wearing her brown coat today. I know because it's really scratchy."

Sherlock wished that he could tell something about the boy who was now holding his hand. He couldn't tell much. He had heard him sniffing, too, and from that he could tell that he was just a little bit taller than he was, but obviously he didn't have any idea what he looked like or what he was wearing. A shame, too, because Sherlock had used to feel so smart when he could learn so much about a person just from those basic things.

"What is _your_ name?" he asked. "And why are _you_ all alone?"

If he were being honest, Sherlock didn't really care about the answers to either questions. He wouldn't admit it, but he was just glad that he had someone there to help him.

 

There were many, many people out that morning, and all of them seemed to be closing in around the two little boys as they made their way through the sea of them. John kept his hand tight around the other boy's to make sure he wouldn't lose him in the crowd, but it made talking difficult, as he was also concentrating on fishing out the scent he'd caught on the boy.

"Sher...lock," he repeated. He tried it again, then once more, because it wasn't a name he'd ever heard before and it felt a bit funny on his tongue. "My name is John. And I wasn't alone. My dad was watching me."

Well. More or less. Surely he wouldn't notice that John was gone, it would only be for a few minutes. He wouldn't get angry over that. And he was doing something good! Maybe he would be proud of him, even! He was so distant, he didn't spend a lot of time smiling at John, and when he did, it felt stretched across his face like he had pins keeping his mouth in place. Maybe he would get a really good one, this time.

But John pushed those thoughts away for the time to focus on the job at hand.

"There's so many people here," he murmured, stopping in front of Sherlock to look around. He was a little taller than the other boy and it allowed him to see over his head when he turned around in a circle, nose lifted in the air.

"Wait, come this way..." He pulled Sherlock again, back towards where they came. "What sort of a name is 'Sherlock'? I've never heard that before."

 

Sherlock wondered why John's father would let him go off on his own if he'd been watching him, but he didn't ask. Maybe he had been busy with something and hadn't actually seen John leave? Either way, Sherlock was glad that he had. He needed the help.

He was nervous and he knew it was obvious. He was breathing quickly and his palm was sweating, making it more difficult to hold John's hand in his own. He knew the other boy noticed, how could he not? It was embarrassing, but Sherlock focused on telling himself that it wasn't his fault.

He hadn't wanted to go blind. He hadn't asked for it. The eye doctor had told him and his parents that there was nothing they could do to slow the progression, that it was genetic and irreversible.

'They're always working on cures for these sorts of things,' he had said, 'and ocular transplant research has come a long way. We're not there yet, but in ten, twenty years, who knows what could happen?'

"I have heard the name 'John' dozens of times," Sherlock said, tightening his hand around John's as he followed after him, doing his best to keep from slowing them both down. It was hard to walk at normal speed when he couldn't see. He was entirely reliant on a complete stranger to guide him, and frankly, he didn't like it.

"I don't know how my parents came up with the name. My brother's name is Mycroft. My mum and Dad are named Wilma and Thomas. They have boring names; maybe they wanted us to have unusual ones."

Well, at least that had got his mind off his missing mother, or a moment.

"How are you going to find her? You don't know what she looks like, and you said you don't know what bergamot smells like. Is your nose really that good? I know you smelled me."

 

John most certainly could feel the other boy's hand, slick with sweat and grasping to keep hold of his own, but he wondered how much of that was mixed with his own.

He was nervous, too, because it had been so long since he'd talked to another little boy, someone his own age or someone who wasn't his mum or Harry, and because he had taken it on himself to get this boy back to _his_ mum, he knew he couldn't screw it up.

When being told that Sherlock had known he had smelled him, his grip on his hand tightened a little more.

"I didn't smell you," he said quickly. "Well, I did--I thought maybe some of her perfume was on you." He shook his head and the cap, already too big for him, fell slightly over his eyes, and he had to push it up again as he changed the subject. "Besides, you told me what she looked like. Scratchy brown coat, blonde hair and blue eyes. It can't be too hard to find her, can it?"

Again, John lifted his nose in the air and inhaled, (making sure to be a little more quiet about it) before he suddenly made a beeline to their left, pulling Sherlock through the crowd of people, weaving him in and out, legs instinctively pulling them faster as though he couldn't help but stop until he found his destination. His heart began to race quickly again and he felt a familiar tightness around the base of his spine. It was uncomfortable, awfully so, but John did his best to ignore it.

And then he saw her; a beautiful woman with blonde hair done up in a messy bun on her head, wearing clothes that John would have seen the woman in magazines and shop windows wearing. A small heel, and a brown coat that looked terribly scratchy.

And that smell! The same one he'd found on Sherlock's collar, only much, much stronger. Enough to make him want to hold his breath. John tightened his fingers around Sherlock and turned to look at him, though he still couldn't get the best look.

"You're going to be okay, I promise," he told him in his best reassuring voice. And then, as if on cue, the woman turned her worried, wet eyes on them and gasped.

"Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock was _tired_

His doctor had warned him that he would be. He'd told him that he would feel tired, not because he wasn't getting enough sleep or because he was doing things that wore him out, necessarily, but just because living as a blind person was such a change from what he was used to, and he would feel like everything he did was a huge ordeal, whereas he would normally have been able to do things without even thinking about them.

It wasn't fair. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind about that. He knew he wasn't the nicest person on earth, and he wasn't the smartest (that title was bestowed upon Mycroft), but he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't mean. He was just...himself. He didn't deserve to have his eyesight taken away from him, and yet here he was, staring into nothing but blackness as he was pulled along behind a boy he didn't even know.

John could have been taking him anywhere. Sherlock had read in the papers once about a father who used his own daughter to lure other little girls away, and then he would keep them locked up and hurt them. Even though Sherlock wasn't a girl, it had still scared him, just a little.

He'd only been six at the time, so, he'd had an excuse to be scared.

By the time John stopped running, Sherlock felt out of breath. He didn't have any idea where he was. Was he still around other people? He could hear them, but was he still safe? Surely he wasn't going to be pushed into some van and taken somewhere, locked in a cage and beat and hurt. John was nice; he wouldn't do that, not to him.

Yes, they had only just met...but still.

Then John promised him that he would be okay. He wouldn't break a promise, would he? Only bad people did that. John didn't seem like a bad person. He wouldn't have helped Sherlock look for his mother if he was, right? Unless he'd been lying about that all along...

Then, he heard it. His mother's voice stood out amongst the other murmuring of people who passed by; he could hear it clearly over the sound of cars driving and horns honking, birds cawing and chirping. Immediately Sherlock felt his heart begin to slow. He was so relieved that he exhaled sharply, not even realising that he'd begun to hold his breath. He reached out his hand towards his mother, just so he could be absolutely sure that it was her, but he was already being pulled into her arms and held, tightly, against her body.

His hand slipped out of John's as it happened.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock!" his mother exclaimed, putting both of her hands on his face as she kissed the top of his head. Sherlock could tell that she was crouching down in front of him; her voice started from above him but was now level with his eyes. "I don't know how we got separated, but I am _sorry;_ oh, honey, are you okay?"

A month ago, this wouldn't have happened. His mother would have been worried about him, but he would have been hugged and then scolded for getting separated from her. Now, his mother took the blame entirely on herself.

"I'm fine," Sherlock answered as calmly as he could. He bit down on his lip and nodded. Before he could say a word about John, his mother had already turned her attention to him.

"You helped my Sherlock, didn't you?"

Wilma wrapped both of her arms around John and gave him a hug just like she had to her own son; the only difference was that she didn't kiss his head.

"What's your name? How can I thank you? Where are your parents, I need to tell them what you've done for my Sherlock."

John was quite ready to turn and quickly run back to where he had come from, if Sherlock's mum hadn't bent down and wrapped him up in a hug. John's heart felt like it were racing a mile a minute at the warmth and obvious joy and praise from the woman and he squirmed a little to try and calm himself down, less there be... questions.

John couldn't help it. He _couldn’t._ He was only nine and he was excitable and didn't understand or know how to control... _it,_ but it happened anyway and if he got too excited, it would be obvious and he would get into trouble.

So he carefully pulled away and put his hands behind his back like his mum had told him to do, palms covering the base of his spine. His cheeks were slightly red and he opened his mouth to answer this nice, pretty woman, when he was cut off by a voice in the crowd.

“John!”

He jumped a little and they both looked up to see John's father, with his black-rimmed glasses and patched jacket, pushing his way through the crowd. There was no floppy-hat woman with him. His face, too, was slightly red, but for what John guessed was a different reason.

"Where did you go?" he demanded. "You know you are _not_ allowed to go wandering off!"

John closed his mouth and looked back at the woman and Sherlock.

"He got lost," he said. "I was helping."

John's father looked up at the woman and the other little boy, and as if knowing he couldn't scold him too much right here, in front of people, (or maybe he just didn't know how to handle it) he cleared his throat and grabbed for John's arm while the other reached forward to push John's hat further down on his head, as he did so often.

"Sorry if he's bothered you," he told the woman.

John wanted to protest and say he wasn't bothering anyone but his father gave him a look and John closed his mouth again.

"Come on. We're going home now."

John quickly looked up at Sherlock, whose face was turned towards them, and John got his first good look at him, up in his mum's arms. Thick, curly hair. Black sunglasses on his face, posh-looking clothes that looked like they cost more than John's entire wardrobe. His scent stood out from the other two, though, and John found it to be very pleasant indeed.

"Bye," he told him with a small wave, before remembering that he couldn't see him, and dropped his hand again.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything happened so fast. Obviously it was John's father who was scolding him; there was nobody else it could be, and it reminded Sherlock of how his own parents and brother used to act when he would go off on his own or do something he knew he wasn't supposed to be doing.

In his defense, he normally did things for the sake of learning. Whether it was bringing animals home or looking under rocks, going out in the woods at night, walking into buildings by himself, talking to strangers...well. He wasn't _supposed_ to do any of that, and sometimes he obeyed, but other times, not so much.

"He wasn't bothering us at all," Wilma said quickly, putting her hand on Sherlock's shoulder as she straightened up. "Please, sir, let me give him something as a thank-you. I thought I'd lose my head with worry, and then he comes to my boy's rescue."

Even Sherlock nearly blushed at that.

Wilma looked down and saw John holding on to a little green soldier, one that was covered in tooth marks. She clicked her tongue, tutting, and then put her hand on his shoulder, too.

"Oh, you poor thing, did your puppy chew up your toy? Sherlock and I were going to stop at the toy store; how about you come with us? You can pick anything you want." Wilma looked up at John's father and smiled pleadingly. "Please, it's really the least I can do."

Sherlock knew his mother was lying. They hadn't planned to go to the toy store; the only other stop they were going to make was the book store so he could look at the braille selection, if they even had one. Still, if they were going to the toy store, maybe he could get something, too.

And, if he were being honest, he wasn't completely opposed to spending just a little more time with the boy who had helped him.

Biting down on his lower lip, Sherlock reached out his hand, grabbing at the air before his fingers brushed against John's jacket. He moved his hand down John's arm until he could hold on to his hand again, loosely.

"I would like that," he decided. "John can help me pick something, and I'll help him pick something, too."

John's face turned red again when the woman asked him if his puppy had chewed up his toy and he carefully covered the marks with his hand. Well. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t _totally_ wrong.

He couldn't help it! It had been an accident, really.

Sort of.

He looked up at his father, the bill of his hat pointing directly up at the sky.

His mum always told him that it was polite to always decline if someone wanted to give him something, even if they were sincere, because it still felt impolite to accept gifts, but John would be lying if he said he wasn't excited at the thought of getting a new toy. He couldn't be blamed for that, surely. He was only nine, and his age betrayed his face, which lit up hopefully. He never got new toys; he had a box of stuffed animals, a few little green soldier men, but most were chewed, and some of them were missing body parts.

He'd had them for a long, long time. Since way before he could remember.

John's father looked uncomfortable, torn between insisting on _no,_ that it was time to go home, and being put on the spot that he might be judged if _did_ say no, despite knowing it wasn't a good idea.

But then, as he looked down at John for a moment longer, at his son's blue eyes and hand clutching his toy, his face softened and he ran his hand through the back of his hair.

"Just--do _not_ pick out anything big," he said at last. "I mean it. Something small.”

John smiled brightly before looking up at the woman, then at Sherlock, who was holding his hand again. John hadn't ever held anyone else's hand just because before, but he liked holding this boy's hand. He liked feeling that maybe he needed his help some more. So John closed his hand around him tighter again and moved closer to the two, right by their side.

John's father still looked a little uncomfortable, for more than one reason, and he gave John a long look that John knew to say, 'don't do anything that will make it _obvious._ '

John never did anything on purpose that was obvious, though.

"John. What do you say?"

John quickly looked back up at the woman, face turning red again, a big smile spreading across his face.

"Thank you."

Wilma had been able to tell that John's father was uncomfortable, and she did feel a little bad for putting him on the spot like that, but overall, she was glad that she had. The boy's face lit up, and she couldn't help but wonder if he didn't often have the opportunity to buy whatever he wanted.

He and his father both looked a bit...shaggy, for lack of a better word. She would never say that to them, of course, but she could still think it, couldn't she? However, they seemed like kind people. Wilma would never, _ever_ think to judge someone based upon how much money they had or what clothes they were. She thought it was awful to do such a thing. That being said, she always wanted her own family to be well taken care of financially (every way, really), and she always made sure that her sons and husband were dressed to the nines.

"The store is right over here," Wilma said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder so she could indicate to him which direction he needed to go in. "Step carefully, love, there's some ice directly to your left."

That was the worst part about this Christmas season, Sherlock decided. It was mid-December, very nearly the holiday, and that meant that there were crowds and snow and ice. He didn't mind the cold, but the ice made it extremely difficult for him to him to walk worry-free.

Clenching John's hand tighter, Sherlock took small steps. He looked down at the ground, even though he knew he wasn't able to see a thing. Maybe one day he would wake up and be able to see again. It wasn't likely, but he could still hope for it, couldn't he?

Mycroft would probably tell him it was a silly thing to do, but Mycroft didn't have to know.

Wilma led the way into the shop. She tried to take Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock only squeezed hers and then pulled his away. He was already holding John's hand; he didn't need that much help, surely. As soon as they entered, he felt warm and heard the sounds of children giggling, steam engines roaring, and mechanical toys speaking. Some were saying the alphabet, some were counting, but he could hear each and every one individually. The doctor had told him his other senses would improve and it was definitely happening.

Sherlock glanced in John's direction and wet his lips. "What--what kind of toys do you like? I like the ones that teach you something. I had an ant farm, but I think my mum let the ants go, since I can't watch them anymore."

John's father was watching John like a hawk, but thankfully stayed a little ways back, allowing the two boys to have some space to look around. John was very much glad for it, because even though he knew that it was his place to obey his dad's wishes, (to make sure he knew his place, instincts told him) he was eager to go and play with this boy.

"You had an ant farm?" John asked him, lifting his eyebrows. "What do you do with ants?”

That seemed weird to John. Farms had pigs and horses and cows. Not _ants_.

He pulled Sherlock forward a little bit more, maybe a little too quickly in excitement, because there was a sharp, ' _John,_  be _careful,_ ' from where his father was standing.

"Sorry," he murmured, then pulled a little more gently again.

"I don't have a lot of toys," he explained to Sherlock quietly. "I have a lot of stuffed animals, though, but they can be boring sometimes. I don't have anything that teaches things, though. Well, I have this thing that you can put a ball in and it throws it and you can run and catch it. That's really fun, but it's usually for outside and it's too cold to play with that right now."

John had never been in this toy store before, but he felt himself thinking more about the boy called Sherlock, and what he could play with now that he couldn't see anything. It was probably a rude thought, an immature one, but one that came from an innocent place of just not knowing what blind people did. Could he see _anything_? Was it black? Did he imagine things?

John felt himself feeling sad for him.

"Do you like to play make believe?" John found himself asking, a bit dumbly when he found he wasn't sure what to lead Sherlock to first. "I like to do that sometimes."

Sherlock didn't want to have to actually admit that he played make-believe, but the fact was that he did. He didn't do it so much now, but he had when he had been a little younger, before his sight had been taken from him.

His mother would play with him a little, but she was better at supporting him in other ways. Instead of actually playing, she would sew him a costume or make him fake treasure. She had even made him a fake earring once, and a pegleg! His father would play with him the most often, and _something_ Sherlock could coax Mycroft into playing, but he never did a good job at it. He wouldn't use pirate voices or say pirate-y things, and all he ever wanted to do was sit in his chair and read.

The toy that John described made Sherlock crinkle his nose. Chasing after a ball? Boring. Sherlock wasn't very physical. He had no desire to play sports or to watch them on the telly. Well, even if he did want to play sports now, it wasn't as if he could. He wasn't sure what kind of hobbies he could have. Ever since he had gone totally blind, Sherlock had spent most of his time learning to read braille and listening to violin music.

"I used to play pirates," Sherlock answered, shrugging. "And you can do a lot with ants. I liked to watch them build tunnels, and watch the queen have eggs. She never had to do any work; all the worker ants did everything for her. It was interesting."

If John played make-believe...maybe he would be willing to play pirates with him? Sherlock wasn't sure how it would work, but he was smart. He could figure out a way.

"Do you like pirates? I like knights, too, but pirates are better. What sort of make-believe do you play?"

John had never played pirates before, but he did like them. He liked the idea of being on a big ship, sailing off in search of danger or gold and treasure, sword fighting and making someone walk the plank. He thought absently about his bunk bed and how he could sometimes jump from it, (though he always got in trouble for it) and pretend he was jumping to the ocean.

"I like to pretend I'm a hunter," John said, breaking into a toothy grin. He let go of Sherlock's hand so he could bring both of them up, fingers curls like claws as he made a fierce-face at Sherlock, as if to scare him. Which he couldn't even see, but John did it anyway.

"In my backyard I pretend I'm a protector and I'm saving everyone from danger. I'm _really_ good at it. Sometimes Harry will pretend she's the bad guy and she's coming to take my family away and I _always_ stop her. Sometimes I like to pretend to be a wolf."

He couldn't exactly explain that one. It wasn't like being a pirate or a knight, but he always liked to pretend he was a wild animal off hunting or running through the forests. He got a lot more excitement out of it than Harry did, of course. Whenever John would start growling at her, (sometimes unintentionally) and pretend to jump on her, she would push him off and storm off.

John didn't know why.

The store was warm; much warmer than outside, no doubt the heat was turned up high, and John wanted badly to take the hat off. He hated wearing it, but he wasn't allowed to remove it until he got home. Beneath it, there was a slight twitching, as all the sounds in the store seemed to be picking themselves out to him, and he would occasionally turn his head in one direction to look when he heard something particularly loud.

"Let's go over here," John said, taking Sherlock's hand again and leading him down an aisle. "You said you liked things that teach you stuff. I don't think many toys teach stuff, though. I don't have anything like that."

Sherlock found it very odd that John liked to pretend to be a wolf. What sort of child pretended to be an animal? That wasn't normal, was it? Sherlock had never heard of anyone doing it, but then again, he didn't know many other children. Just Mycroft and the neighbour boy, but Sherlock wasn't very close with either of them. His parents kept him and Mycroft away from other children, more so now that Sherlock was blind, so he was very glad to be out with John.

Sherlock knew it wouldn't last, though. His mother would buy John a toy, and probably one for him, too, and then they would go their separate ways and never see one another again. Sherlock didn't like that, but he was at least glad that he and John had been able to spend even just a little time together. It was surprisingly nice to spend time with someone his own age.

There were so many people in the store, which was already warm to begin with, that Sherlock soon started to become uncomfortably hot. He reached up with his free hand and pulled at his scarf, loosening it around his neck. He pushed his sunglasses further up on the bridge of his nose and glanced around, despite seeing only black in all directions.

"I had a plant that ate bugs," Sherlock told John, just because it was one of the educational toys he'd had. Of course, most children wouldn't think of a plant as a toy, but Sherlock had thoroughly enjoyed it. "It was a flytrap. Oh, and I had a solar-powered grasshopper. I liked him, but he didn't always work because it's always cloudy and rainy."

Sherlock didn't know where they were at in the store. He didn't know where his mother was, or where John's father had gone. He reached out his hand and it smashed directly into a shelf, making him grunt in discomfort and then sigh.

"I had an edible chemistry kit, too. It made fizzy drinks and foaming jelly that changed colours. I liked it. I didn't eat much of what it made, though. It didn't taste very good."

Even though John didn't know this boy at all, and even if he hadn't done anything that was really out of the ordinary, John was interested in him. The things he said weren't things John had ever heard before.

Edible chemistry sets. Fly traps. Solar powered grasshoppers. John didn't even know what some of those _were_ , and here this boy was talking about them like they were so normal.

He was so...cool.

"Wow," John said, turning to look at the shelf of Barbie dolls they were standing in front of, (by chance only, John certainty didn't play with dolls). "I wish I had an edible chemistry set. But I don't know anything about chemistry so I don't think I would be good at it. I would probably eat the stuff, though. I'll eat anything. I love to eat."

Sometimes that was literal, but John didn't say that.

He took Sherlock's hand again and laced their fingers together because it was easier to hold on to him that way and began to pull him forward again. There were things he wanted to ask him, mostly about his sight, about where he lived and where he went to school. John was home schooled, 'just until you are old enough to understand some things' his mum had said with a tight smile. John felt he understood things just fine, though.

John really didn't know if anything here would be something Sherlock would like. There were action figures and bubble machines and trains and jump ropes and balls and all sorts of cool things that John would love to play with, but there were no fly eating plants or solar powered animals. John felt a bit sad again, all of a sudden, and a sudden urge to find Sherlock the perfect toy.

"Come on," he said again. He walked only a step or so ahead of the (presumably younger) boy, looking all around, up at the tall shelves and all the stuff on the top shelves.

His nose suddenly began to tingle as a strange smell, only known by him, came drifting through the aisle and he whirled around to see where it came from. He began to follow where it was, turning the corner with Sherlock in tow, until he stopped and stared at the display in front of him.

"Oh! Look!"

He spoke before he could think, but he didn't even register his own words as he pulled Sherlock to the machine on the stool.

"A scent-creator," he read slowly from the sign as little tubes with different colored liquids seemed to bubble and boil on top of an electric-powered heat. There were different powders that one could choose from, so John reached his fingers in the blue stuff and sprinkled some inside the liquid. It began to fizz suddenly and then the air turned a wispy silver colour and a scent like the ocean began to fill his senses.

"You should get this!"

John telling him to 'look' made Sherlock's heart sink just a little. He knew he would never be able to look at anything ever again, not unless there came to be some medical miracle that could give him his sight back. What were the chances of that happening?

Slim, if not nonexistent. And even if it did happen, it wouldn't be for years down the road. He would probably be an old man before he could see again, and by then he wouldn't even be able to recognise anything!

Being dragged along with John wasn't something Sherlock liked, at all, but he couldn't very easily just let go of his hand. He didn't know where his mother had gone, although he knew she wouldn't be far from him, not after having already lost him once. Sherlock tried to smell her perfume, but he was distracted when he heard a sniffing coming from in front of him.

John really _did_ like smelling things.

"A scent-creator?" Sherlock repeated, his brow furrowing as he stared ahead, despite not being able to see anything. He was intrigued just by the name alone. John's nose was much better than his own, which shouldn't have been the case, Sherlock decided. He was blind; he had to make sure that his other senses were stronger, so he couldn't let John be better at smelling things than him.

Sherlock leaned forward a little, inhaling slowly. He could smell...what was it, salt? Seawater? Maybe a little bit of coconut, too? It wasn't a bad smell and Sherlock even smiled a little, just because he was thinking of his first trip to the beach. He'd found a few little crabs in a tide pool, and even a starfish. He had wanted to take them home to study them, but his father had told him no.

"It sounds like something scientific," Sherlock mumbled. He nodded his head and reached forward, curling his fingers around the edge of one of the boxes and pulling it beneath his arm. "I like science toys. What are you going to get, John? You can get whatever you want, even though your dad said to get something small. My parents have a lot of money. You should get something really big and _really_ expensive."

Despite what Sherlock said, John knew it wouldn't be the case. He couldn't get anything he wanted, especially if it was big and expensive. The second his dad would see him picking out something like that, he would demand that John put it back. His dad was already uncomfortable letting John pick something out at all, likely because they didn't have a lot of money and because he didn't let John go and talk to other kids too much.

It made John, despite being an eager nine-year-old, unsure of what he should choose. There were plenty of things he could like, but all of them were simple enough. He let go of Sherlock's hand and looked around a bit.

"I don't know what to get," he admitted softly. From where they were now standing, John could look up and see his father and Sherlock's mother. They were still standing near the entrance, but both of their eyes were trained on them as their mouths would occasionally move, no doubt making some sort of small talk. John didn't liked listening to adults talk, but that was almost always who he had to listen to. He caught his dad's eye and the man made a small, circular motion with his hand that told John, 'come on, let's hurry it up', so John looked around quickly.

"You pick something out for me," John said. "I bet you know all sorts of cool stuff, even if you can't see them in front of you."

Sherlock would have been lying if he'd said he didn't like John telling him 'I bet you know all sorts of cool stuff'. The fact was that he did know all sorts of cool stuff, and not only about toys. He knew all sorts of cool stuff about all sorts of things.

For example, he knew that the speed of sound was one-thousand, two-hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. He knew that humans exhale carbon dioxide, and that plants ate it. He knew that the London Eye was the tallest Ferris wheel in Europe, measuring at one-hundred and thirty-five metres tall.

He knew all those things andso much more.

"Maybe you should get a model," Sherlock suggested. "Or a puzzle. Although, I guess you prefer toys that you can actually play with, don't you?" He hummed as he thought. He didn't know John very much, so it was hard for him to come up with an idea of what John should buy. He didn't want to suggest anything that John wouldn't like; he wanted to make sure that whatever he said, it was perfect. He wanted John to know just how smart he was.

"Why not a bow and arrow, or a toy gun? You said you like to pretend to be a hunter. Wolves don't use weapons, but maybe you can be a special wolf. Or you can just pretend to be a human hunter."

Sherlock thought it was an excellent idea. John could set up empty bottles or cans and try to shoot at them; he could practice daily and get better and better at his aim. Just as long as he didn't use it to hurt any real animals, which Sherlock already knew John wouldn't do, he imagined he would have a lot of fun with it.

"Or you could get one of each. Mother wouldn't mind."

John's fingers seemed to tingle with excitement at the possibility of getting to pretend he was a fierce hunter with a cool gun or a bow to take down the bad guys, hunting like a predator. John could even imagine himself doing it! He pictured it in his head, like a movie, and he decided he very much liked the idea.

The only thing that could have made the moment better was if Sherlock could see him pick out his chosen weapon. It made John wonder what it would be like, not being able to see anything. It seemed like it would be really boring, but he didn't say that because he didn't want to hurt Sherlock's feelings. He just wanted him to be...

Well. Okay, he supposed. He wanted to make sure he was content. Happy, even.

"That's a great idea," he eventually decided. He took Sherlock's hand once more and walked them over to the next aisle, where there were all sorts of toy guns and bows on display. Most of them were in cardboard cases, of course, with just the front cut out, so John couldn't hold any of them, but he wanted to make sure he got the perfect one.

He picked up a box that was to his left; in it was a toy shotgun, similar to the one his toy soldier was using, and John decided it looked the coolest.

There was a toy handgun that also looked pretty neat, and he debated between the two, but only for a moment.

Who knew? Maybe he would have a real one, someday!

He looked back at Sherlock, facing him head-on, and brought the box up to his chest.

"I think this will be my favorite," he declared to him, and he felt his chest tighten with sudden, boyish admiration. "Maybe dad will let me come to the park again, soon. And then we can be pirate hunters."

He hoped, anyway. John hadn't gotten to play with someone in so long. He wanted to be able to go to school like the other kids, he wanted to be able to make friends and play with everyone, but they never let him. And Sherlock was, so far, the coolest kid John had talked to, so he really wanted to be able to play with him.

Sherlock wished he could see what John had chosen. Was it a gun? Was it a bow and arrow? Was it something else entirely? Darn it! He wanted to be able to _see_. The worst part of it all was that his condition was more than likely permanent. He would never again be able to see snow, or animals, or his mother and father, or even Mycroft. He would never be able to read a normal book or watch telly and see what was happening; he would never get to know what John looked like, other than touching his face and getting a vague idea about it.

It wasn’t _fair._

He had told Mycroft that, and Mycroft was quick to tell him, 'Life isn't fair, little brother.' Sherlock could still hear it in his mind, and he sneered as he thought of it. Was that supposed to help him, knowing that life isn't fair?

Sherlock didn't need life to be fair. He could understand that it wasn't and be just fine. He didn't need it to be fair, but why couldn't it be fair just this one time? He would take anything else...he would even be deaf! But to have his sight taken from him, the sense that he used more than any other, was, in his mind, a cruel twist of fate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own How the Grinch Stole Christmas, of course, that's all Dr. Seuss. It was too fitting to not have Sherlock a fan of the Grinch ;)

Sherlock had no idea that John, too, had his own challenges that he had to live with every minute of every day. He didn't know about John's 'affliction', or that they had more in common than he could imagine. And yet, he liked the other boy.

Sherlock reached out his hand towards the sound of John's voice. He felt the box against his chest and traced his fingers along the toy. It was long...a shotgun, then? The end was rounded, so that meant he wasn't feeling an arrow, but an actual gun.

"Being pirate hunters could be fun," Sherlock agreed, nodding. "Do you see any swords? I need a new sword. I like--liked--watching them fight with their swords. I even thought about taking fencing classes, when I was older. Mum says I'm too young to do it now."

At least, that was what she _had_ said. Now, she would probably say that he couldn't do it because he was blind.

Fair enough.

"Do you live close to the park?" Sherlock asked, feeling around until his hand came into contact with the shelf of toys. He felt a hand-gun, and then what was probably some sort of water gun, and then a foam toy. "I live about twenty minutes East of it."

  
_Fencing lessons?_

John's eyes widened just so when Sherlock told him he might get to take fencing when he was older. That sounded so cool; John didn't think it was like the swords fights on the telly, where there was real danger, but he thought it sounded so cool, the way you could actually sword fight at _all_.

John didn't get to play sports, but he already decided that when he was older he was going to play rugby, whether mum or dad let him or not. He wanted to be like the other boys in the park, all covered up in mud and dirt and laughing and looking so carefree. He even didn't mind the way they were all huddled up together and tackling each other. It sounded fun!

"I think you'll be good at fencing," John told him. "You could use your hearing to find out where they are. Nobody would know because they wear those helmet things."

He turned around and faced the other wall, where there were all sorts of plastic swords lining the shelves. Some of them were pirate swords, some of them looked like samurai swords. John listened as Sherlock went on about asking where he lived in relation to the park, but the truth was, John didn't _really_ know. He didn't even know where east was, but he didn't let that on; Sherlock seemed to know a lot of cool things and John didn't want him to know that John didn't know as many things.

"I don't live in London," he said softly, tracing his fingers along the edge of the shelves. "We took the tube to get here. I wish we could come to London more often though. I really like it here, but mum says it's really, really expensive. And crowded."

That was definitely a big portion of it.

"Maybe when I'm older I'll move here."

He picked up two of the plastic swords and held them out in front of him.

"What about these?"

 

Sherlock was disappointed when John told him he didn't live in London. The fact that he'd taken the tube to get to the area, well...that meant they couldn't keep in contact easily, didn't it? If they wanted to play together again, they would have to travel a long way just to get to one another. Maybe this was the only time they would see each other, then.

Unfortunately.

Sherlock's parents, being extra overprotective of him as they were, now, may not even let him see John again. At least his mother had a good first impression of John, since he had helped him find his way back to her. Maybe that would make her more willing to let them see one another again.

Then again, John's father didn't sound keen on letting his son have any friends. That seemed like something else that he and Sherlock had in common. Sherlock didn't understand why their parents didn't want them to be around other children, but there was really nothing he could do about it, especially now that he was blind. If he still had his eyesight, he could have 'borrowed' a few pounds from his mother's purse and taken the tube to go and visit John. It wouldn't be _that_ hard to figure out, surely.

Sherlock took hold of the swords one at a time and felt them. The first was shorter and thicker, whereas the second was long and sleek, but still solid enough that it would be able to withstand the impact of clashing against another sword. He put the first back on the shelf (the wrong shelf, as it turned out) and then held the other to his chest, struggling to hold both it and the scent-maker.

"Do you go to the park often?" Sherlock asked, just as his mother came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He knew it was her because he could smell her perfume as she approached. Even though Sherlock couldn't see her, he looked up at his mother, and then beside her where he assumed John's father was standing.

"Will you bring John to the park sometime so we can play pirate-hunters?"

Asking John's father, he decided, would be the best idea--going straight to the source of who could give him--them--what they wanted.

 

John’s father looked down at the two boys and John could tell by the look of him that he was being forced into another situation where he wasn't sure what he would do. He probably wished he wasn't in the situation at all and John did feel a little bad, knowing it was his fault in the first place.

But he found he really couldn't feel too bad. He liked Sherlock. He was glad he had helped him.

His father's eyes moved briefly to the cap on John's head, then down to the waistband of his jeans before he cleared his throat.

"I am sure we will be back in London again soon," he decided on saying. But that was that.

John felt himself deflate, just a bit. He could feel, beneath his hat, what would have been two upright ears, slightly flopped at the tips, turn sideways in disappointment.

John didn't want Sherlock to go home, but he didn't know what else he could do. He didn't like the idea that he was going off somewhere he didn't know, because what if he got separated from his mum again? John wouldn't be there to smell out her perfume again...

But all John could do was stand close next to him as their little group made their way to the cash register for them to check out with their new toys.

There were so many people, though, likely because it was nearing Christmas, and people seemed to be right on top of them, crowding them. When an older boy seemed to brush past Sherlock, a little bit too close, John moved closer and felt a very soft rumble in the back of his throat.

 

Sherlock knew just as well as John did that his father was basically saying 'no' to them playing together again. That wasn't fair! He was already blind, and now he couldn't see the _one_ boy he'd ever spoken with again?

Sherlock wanted to argue, but what could he say? John's father simply wasn't going to allow them to see each other again. That was all there was to it. Maybe it was because he was blind? Sherlock understood that, but he certainly didn't like it. It was hard enough for his parents and Mycroft to live with him; he couldn't really expect another family to cater to his needs if he went to visit them.

But still...maybe his parents would let John come and visit him? It didn't seem likely, though, so Sherlock kept his questions to himself. It wouldn't do any good to ask, after all, so there was no need to make a fuss.

Sherlock made a soft 'oof' noise when he was pushed, unintentionally, by someone else. He rolled his eyes but was soon distracted by a strange noise that he heard coming from right beside him. He knew it was John; John was the only one there, but it still wasn't something Sherlock expected to hear.

"Are you--" he asked, his brow furrowing as he turned to face John, "are you _growling_?”

He had never heard a person growl before, but that was exactly what John was doing. It was the strangest thing he had ever heard before in his life, but he was also intrigued, just because he wanted to know why John was doing it.

His mother and John's father were paying for their toys at the counter, no longer looking at them or paying them any heed. Sherlock was glad for that.

"Why are you growling?"

 

John didn't even realize what he had done until he had done it. It was purely instinct, and because of his age, he didn't yet know how to control that part of him, and it almost always happened at very inopportune times.

This just happened to be one of them.

His heart began to race just a little bit faster and Sherlock was staring in his direction and John was glad he wasn't able to see his face, which was turning red.

"I didn't---I was just... pretending."

Jeez, now Sherlock was going to think he was weird, like he was pretending to be a wolf or something, like he told Sherlock. Yes, John _did_ like to play pretend, but he was still aware enough of his surroundings not to just do it alone, by himself.

He swallowed and shook his head a little, looking around. This day had taken such a strange turn. He felt a little anxious, though, about what might happen when they got home. Would he get in trouble? Would he get his new toys taken away for a while?

John sighed inwardly at the thought.

"Do you come to the park a lot?" he found himself asking the boy. "Maybe I can meet you sometime. Maybe I can call you." He paused and lowered his voice. "It would have to be at night, though."

 

Sherlock _did_ think John was weird for pretending to growl. Playing a wolf at home in his backyard was one thing (still strange, though) but to do it right in the middle of a toy store? Weird. Even so, he kept his thoughts to himself. It was probably obvious on his face how he was feeling, though.

"I don't come very often," Sherlock admitted. "Only to get bugs. And soil samples. Sometimes leaves, or grass."

If Sherlock suddenly started asking to come to the park more often, his parents and Mycroft would catch on to what he was doing. They would see John there and they would either let him continue to come or they would tell him that it wasn't right or him to have a friend. But that didn't make sense. Why wouldn't his mother and father want him to have a friend to play with?

It didn't make any sense at all to Sherlock, but he knew there was nothing he could do to change his parents' minds. He could only work around their decisions.

Sherlock licked his lips and smiled a little. Calling John would be a good idea. They could even stay up late at night and do it, and then their parents wouldn't know! Sherlock knew that both of his parents and Mycroft slept fairly heavily, so if the phone rang just once before he answered it, it wouldn't wake them.

"Find me a piece of paper and a pen," Sherlock told John, his voice just as soft as the other boy's had been. It was exciting, doing this behind their parents' backs, especially when they were (as far as Sherlock could tell) only a few feet from them.

"There must be something around here...oh! No, just give me your number and I'll call you. I have a really, _really_ good memory; I'll remember it." Sherlock tapped his ear. "Here, whisper it to me."

 

John, too, smiled a little because what they were doing was going to be sneaky, and maybe it was because John was just a young boy, but there was always a sense of excitement he got when doing something he wasn't supposed to. Or, as his mum put it, 'being naughty'.

He leaned in and put his hand on Sherlock's face, cupping his hand around his mouth as he breathed out the nine digits into the boy's ear that he had memorized so well because his mum made him. Thankfully, neither of the adults seemed to notice their little plan.

He was a little nervous that Sherlock might forget, though. How could anyone remember a bunch of random numbers without accidentally forgetting one? John couldn't do that; he _always_ had to write them down.

"Don't forget, okay?" he murmured to him, pulling away again, and it was at that moment that the adults turned around, bags in hand. John's father cleared his throat and spoke to him.

"Okay John. Say thank you, we need to go home now."

John looked up at Sherlock's mother and offered her a smile before doing as his father told him and thanking her again, as sincerely as he could make himself sound.

They began to all head towards the exit and John felt his father's hand wrap around his own, and John turned to look at Sherlock. He started to wave, but remembered he wouldn't be able to see it, and reached for his hand to hold it, briefly.

"Bye, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock committed John's number to memory. It wasn't even by choice; he often didn't choose to remember things, he just _did._ Mycroft was going to teach him how to control his memory one of these days, but that had been put on hold ever since Sherlock's vision had started to wane worse and worse.

"Bye, John," he repeated softly, looking down at their joined hands even though he couldn't see them. He didn't want his new friend to leave already, but there was nothing he could do about it. The most he could do was call, and he was most certainly going to call him tonight.

"Come along, dear," his mother said, taking his hand so she could guide him out of the store. As soon as they left the store, the cold wind made Sherlock shiver, and he pushed his scarf up so it was protecting his nose and mouth. He could hear so many people around, talking and laughing, babies crying. Some people brushed past him as he walked, taking each step slowly and carefully, and he wondered again why John had _growled_ in the store. Maybe he really had just been playing pretend.

It took longer than it should have for them to get back to the car, since Sherlock had to walk slowly and his mother had to instruct him whenever a patch of ice or a pothole in the ground was near. He got into the front passenger seat and buckled up his seatbelt. As soon as his mother turned the car on, Christmas music started to play through the car stereo.

His mother loved Christmas.

"John was nice, wasn't he?"

Sherlock agreed with her, but he didn't want to seem too excited. He knew Mycroft would make fun of him if their mother told him about it. He decided to say, simply, "Yes, he was."

"I made his father quite uncomfortable, didn't I? I didn't mean to. I just wanted the poor boy to have something nice for Christmas. That old toy he was carrying around has seen better days."

Wilma kept talking, as she normally did, but Sherlock ignored her in favour of leaning his head against the window. He wished he could look at it, and he regretted every time he'd gone past it and thought about how boring it was. He would give his entire left arm to be able to see it again.

Once they were home, Sherlock felt his way to his room. His father asked him if he'd had fun at the shops and Sherlock just said that he had, rather than starting an actual conversation. He set both toys down on his desk and opened up the scent-creator. As he expected, no part of the instructions were in braille, so he would have to put off playing with it until he got some sort of idea how.

The rest of the night went by slowly, just because Sherlock was eager for it to get late. At dinner, he listened with disinterest as his father talked about his day at work, and both he and Mycroft left the table as quickly as they could. Sherlock went to his room and continued reading one of the biology books he had. It wasn't his favourite subject, at all, but it had been a cheap braille book and he'd been desperate to have _anything._

At nine o'clock, his mother tucked him into bed, with the customary forehead kiss and song. As soon as she left the room, Sherlock got his book out from under the pillow and continued to read. One of the good things (one of the _few_ good things) about being blind was that he didn't need a light to read by.

When his alarm clock spoke 'eleven PM', Sherlock decided to risk calling. Was it late enough? He hoped it was. He didn't want to wait any longer to call John, so he sneaked out of his room and down the hall, feeling his way along the walls. The phone was in the living room, approximately one-hundred yards from his bedroom.

The couch...his father's armchair...the coffee table...ah! The end table by his mother's chair, where the phone sat. Sherlock counted to ten and then dialed the nine digits John had told him, holding his breath as the phone started to ring.

 

John didn't want to seem too eager than day, but he was, and it showed in the way that he kept glancing over at the phone on the hook. He didn't know if Sherlock were going to call him that day, or the next, or maybe not at all, (what if he _did_ forget his number?) but there was a stirring of excitement in his stomach that came from anticipation.

He did his best to stay away after he had been put to sleep, tried to keep his eyes open in the dark so he wouldn't accidentally fall asleep, and when he finally heard his parents going to their room and closing the door, he pushed off the covers and quickly and quietly left his own room, careful to sneak past Harry's door so he could go and get the wireless phone and bring it back to his room.

Just in case.

Of course, sleep was starting to get to him, and as he laid in bed with the phone on his chest, his eyes began to slowly drift shut.

His dad had told his mum about the incident in the park that day, and his mother had given John a long, _long_ talk about how dangerous it was to go wandering off and talking to strangers because 'what if they found out, John? _What if?!_ Do you realise what could have happened?'

John wished he didn't have this same talk all the time. He didn't see what the big deal was. It was just... who he was. He couldn't help that he was like this anymore than someone couldn't help the colour of their skin or hair colour. People could understand that, right?

He ran his hand through hair; short and the colour of straw, on top of which his ears finally had room to stand up. His fingers traced their soft texture. He rolled over to his stomach, and where there had earlier that day been nothing, was now a hole cut out of the back of his pyjama bottoms, out of which a long, shaggy, golden-haired tail hung. It didn't move, but there was no reason for it to, as John was completely calm and content.

And then, a sudden ring, and John's eyes snapped open and he breathed out a little gasp. He knew who it was even before he picked up. Nobody else would ever call their home this late at night, so with fumbling hands, John quickly pressed the 'talk' button and scrambled to get under the covers.

"Hello, Sherlock?"

He pulled the covers down tightly over his head until he were in his own little cave. He could tell who it was by the breathing on the other end and the quiet voice, and his tail swished gently back and forth.

"You have a really good memory," he told the other boy.

 

"Hi, John."

Sherlock was truly excited to hear the other boy's voice. It was almost embarrassing how glad he was to be talking to him again. It had only been a few hours since they had last seen each other, and yet he had barely been able to wait until eleven, much less any later.

He had never talked to someone on the phone just for the sake of talking. At least, nobody other than his mother and father. He had never even talked to his grandparents on the phone, or his aunts and uncles or cousins. Sherlock just had no interest in any of them.

Sherlock sat down in his mother's chair and pulled his knees up to his chest. The phone was held snugly between his ear and his shoulder. His heart was beating fast from excitement, the excitement that came from talking to John and also from wondering whether he would get caught. He didn't want to, but there was a certain amount of danger that came along with doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Some children would be deterred from doing things they knew their parents didn't want them to, but Sherlock had never been like most other children.

"I have a _great_ memory," Sherlock corrected John. "I can remember a lot of things. Like, the first one-hundred digits of pi. And the periodic table of the elements. I'm learning French, too. I know six-hundred and nineteen words so far. Do you speak French?"

Sherlock had wanted to learn German first, but his mother had coerced him into putting it off until he was fluent in French, just because they sometimes went to Paris on holiday and it would be better for him to know how to communicate with the locals if something were to happen to him, or if he got separated from his family. Also, he would need to know how to read the braille signs, menus, and maps.

 

John didn't ever talk to anyone on the phone. He didn't have anyone _to_ talk to, really, and he wasn't even entirely certain what one was supposed to do, but his mum did it all the time. She could talk on the phone for hours and John never knew what she could be talking about, but she would always walk around the house with the phone against her ear as she cleaned the living room or poured her coffee or sometimes she would sit out on the back porch and stare at John as he played while she talked.

There was so many possibilities of things to talk about, but he was happy that Sherlock was leading the conversation because it took a little of the pressure of.

"I don't speak French," John said. "I'm homeschooled right now, so I just know basic stuff like Maths and grammar and stuff. It's boring. Do you go to school to learn all that? I bet you go to a private school, don't you?"

He shifted a little, turning on one side so he could face the wall from beneath the covers, if just to muffle his voice even more. The last thing he needed was for his parents to wake up to the sound of him talking.

"Have you played with your new toy yet? Mum told me I don't get mine until tomorrow. Did you know that she almost made me take them back?" John made a face, nose scrunched up. "She finally let me keep them, though."

He paused, then, as he thought for a moment. "What are you going to do with the first one-hundred digits of pi, anyway?"

 

The child-like nature of the conversation escaped Sherlock, just for the simple fact that he _was_ a child. He had heard his parents talk on the phone, and even Mycroft sometimes, and they would always use big words and get excited or angry or upset, Father especially when he was talking to people he worked with.

"I don't go to a private school," Sherlock told the other boy. His voice was soft, even though his parents' and Mycroft's bedrooms were rather far from where he was. "I'm homeschooled, too. I'm teaching myself French. Mycroft helps me sometimes, though, if there are words I can't figure out."

Fortunately, that didn't happen very often.

"I haven't played with my toy yet, no. I took it out of the box, though. I won't be able to play with it until somebody reads me the directions. They didn't write them in braille." Sherlock frowned. "It's too bad your father doesn't seem to want us being friends. You could come over and play with it with me, and you could read the directions. You have a good nose, don't you? I do, too, but it's because I'm blind. You aren't blind, so your nose must just be _really_ good."

Sherlock had never met anyone whose nose was as good as John's. It made him laugh softly as a thought came to him.

"You can almost smell as good as a dog."

Sherlock had always wanted a dog. His mother and father had always told him that he had to wait until Mycroft went away to University, because Mycroft hated animals. That was still three years or so away, but maybe they would let him get one early now that he was blind. It would be yet another one of the few good things that came from his impairment.

"And to answer your question, I'm not going to do anything with the first one-hundred digits of pi, silly. It has ten-trillion digits. That's how many they know about right now, anyway. I want to see how many of them I can learn. The most anyone has memorised so far is one-hundred thousand. I want to beat him."

 

John may not have known really any other kids, but he was pretty certain none of them were like this boy.

“Trillion?!” he repeated in disbelief, mouth opening wide. That was a number truly unfathomable to John, who still sometimes had trouble with decimals and making sure he could even read long numbers properly. He couldn't probably even accurately read one-hundred thousand, much less memorize that many numbers.

"What are they even good for, anyway? And how come it's named 'pi'? Seems silly."

John rolled over to his back again and he lifted a hand to scratch the back of his ears. It never felt as good as if someone else did it, but nobody ever did. Not in a long time, and he would be lying if he said he didn't crave the affection.

"My dad doesn't like when I go talking to strangers," John said with a little shrug. "He thinks I'm going to get into trouble or something, but I've never done anything to get into trouble."

John wanted to say, 'he doesn't want people finding out about me', but didn't. Sherlock would want to know what about him couldn't be found out, and then he wouldn't want to talk to him anymore. He would be grossed out by him, or maybe think he was a freak.

That's what he had heard, before. Not to his face, but he'd heard his parents hushed whispers, because his hearing was better than most.

'We shouldn't have agreed to this,' his father would sometimes say. 'We should _never_ have--'

And then his mum would cut in that they had to do because John was only a child and it wasn't his fault...

But John never knew what they were talking about when he heard strange words like 'Baskerville' or 'experiments'.

John just ignored it because he was young and he usually found other things to take his attention.

He smirked a little bit when Sherlock said he had a nose like a dog and John felt his tail begin to sway from beneath his body, against the mattress.

"If I lived closer, I could sneak out," John whispered, like it was a big, dark secret. "I could come to your house and read you those directions and we could make funny smells like the ocean again, and then we could really pretend we were pirate hunters out at sea."

He giggled a little closed his eyes under the dark covers, picturing it.

"I'll be your first mate."

 

Sherlock was thrilled by the idea of John playing pirates with him. He was even more thrilled that John had said, willingly, that he would be Sherlock's first mate. Whenever Mycroft would play with him, Sherlock had to _plead_ with his brother to let him be captain.

Even then, Mycroft didn't always let it happen that way, and if he did, he would be sour and only play for a little bit.

Grinning, Sherlock joined John in laughing, although his laugh was softer and more controlled. Refined, one might call it. His was a chuckle, whereas John's was an outright giggle.

"That would be fun," Sherlock told John. He was already picturing it, him and John playing pirates and hunters and making new scents together. They both had good noses and they could test each other and see if they could identify the smells without looking at them.

That would be especially easy for Sherlock, since he couldn't see in the first place.

Then again, John's nose was better, so maybe he wouldn't win after all.

Sherlock licked his lips and got up from his mother's chair. He walked over to the bookshelf by the fireplace and felt for his shelf (the third one up from the ground), counting the books alphabetically until he got to one of his favourites.

"Do you like Christmas, John?" he asked softly, as he moved to the sofa so he could lie down on his stomach, the book in front of him.

"I think it's okay. I like getting presents, but I don't think Santa is real. I have a book that I like, though. It's called 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas', and it's about this mean old furry green man who hates Christmas and tries to steal it. Have you ever read it? I can read it to you. I have it memorised. I even remember what the pictures look like."

Sherlock didn't like all fictional things, but he did like this. The Grinch was smart and ruthless, and the people of Whoville got all sorts of strange presents. Sherlock knew none of it was real, but he still found it a _little_ entertaining.

He never told Mycroft that, though.

 

John only knew the story of the Grinch from what he had seen on the telly every year, but he always came in halfway through so he didn't actually know the whole story. It was probably going to be on more often nowadays since Christmas was coming up soon and John decided since Sherlock brought it up, he should watch it.

Or he could let Sherlock read it to him.

"I like Christmas Carol best," John told him. "I like the ghosts in it and the time travel. Well. It's not really time travel I think, it's like magic."

He wished he could see what Sherlock looked like then, or what he was doing at his house. Or even what his house looked like. John's house was small, nothing special. One floor and John's room was at the very end on the left. There was some chipping paint in some areas and there were usually dishes in the sink, but it wasn't dirty. Just a bit...lower income than what he would see in the movies.

"I like Christmas okay," he said. "Father Christmas doesn't bring me too much usually, but sometimes I'll get something good. I asked for a mini motor bike, but my mum says Father he can't make those."

He shifted a little bit to roll on his back, but made sure the covers were still tucked under his head.

"Hold on," he told Sherlock, then set down the phone on his bed before poking his head out and reaching under his bed. On the floor, there was one of his stuffed animals, one that was particularly chewed up around the ears, and pulled it back up to the bed with him before tucking himself back under the covers again and into the dark. He brought the phone back up to his ear.

"Okay," he said. "Well go on. Read me the story."

 

Sherlock didn't know how John could believe in Father Christmas. It was inconceivable, thinking that one man rode in a sleigh piloted by sleigh that went to the home of every child in only one night. Besides, if Father Christmas was as fat as he was usually portrayed, how did he even fit down the chimney?

He didn't exist.

Sherlock didn't say that again, though, because he found himself not wanting to hurt John's feelings, even though he thought it was silly for him to believe in the bearded man in the first place.

Sherlock opened the book and traced his finger over the first page. He remembered when his father had first read it to him two years ago; he had found the story charming, if a bit (a lot) silly. The silliness only made him like it more, however, and directed his gaze to where he knew the words to be, even though he couldn't see them.

"Every Who down in Whoville," he began softly, "liked Christmas a lot. But the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville, did _not_.”

Sherlock looked at the opposite page, where he knew was an illustration of the Grinch, a very grumpy expression on his face, leaning against the entrance of his cave, with his hands in his pockets.

"The Grinch _hated_ Christmas, the whole Christmas season. Now, please don't ask why, no-one quite knows the reason. It _could_ be his head wasn't screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. But I think that the most likely reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small."

Sherlock crinkled his nose. He had been reading the story with emphasis on certain words, just like his father had read it to him, but when he spoke next, his voice had returned to normal.

"Don't you think someone would be dead if their heart was two sizes too small?"

 

Sherlock made a good point. A heart that was two-sizes too small must have been _really_ small, (not that John knew how big a heart was) but maybe Grinches naturally had smaller hearts.

"Maybe he's deformed," John told him, and his own little deformity of a tail began to sway once more. "I bet he's got a condition and that's the real reason he's such a jerk. Though I've had shoes that were too tight, too, and it's _really_ annoying. I would be grumpy too."

He closed his eyes again and pictured the story so far. He imagined the picture he had seen from the show, with his wicked smile and his fluffy looking feet. He liked the way Sherlock emphasized the words. It really set the mood. Having the phone so close made it feel like Sherlock were right there, whispering in his ear.

"What would you do if you saw a Grinch?" John asked him. "Would you be afraid of one? I don't think I would be."

 

Sherlock had never considered that before. He'd always thought the Grinch's heart was two sizes too small because he was mean, but what if it was an actual deformity that he was born with and couldn't help? That was how it was with Sherlock's blindness. He hadn't _chosen_ to be blind; it had just happened because of his genes.

"I don't think I would be afraid of one, either," Sherlock admitted. Although, remembering what the picture of the Grinch looked like...he wasn't entirely sure. He had long, furry fingers, and Sherlock could imagine them beckoning to him, trying to coax him into his van just like the little girl's father had done to those other children. If the Grinch stole Christmas, would he steal children, too?

Sherlock continued reading the Dr. Seuss story, telling John about the Whos' toys, their feast, their singing, and then how the Grinch decided he was going to steal Christmas. He sewed a suit, put antlers on his dog Max, and then he rode a sleigh down into Whoville and went down the chimney of the first Who-house.

"Then he slid down the chimney," Sherlock continued, "A rather tight pinch. But if Santa could do it, then so could the Grinch. He got stuck only once, for a moment or two, then he stuck his head out of the fireplace flue, where the little Who stockings all hung in a row. These stockings, he said, are the first thing to go."

Then he took the lights, the presents, the food from the icebox, and he stuffed the tree up the chimney. Cindy-Lou Who confronted the Grinch and he lied about being Santa, gave her water and sent her back to bed. He collected all the presents from all the other homes, all the decorations and food, and when his sleigh was packed, he went back up his hill and listened for the crying of the Whos when they realised that Christmas was gone.

But instead they sang!

Sherlock finished the rest of the story, about how the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day. "And he," he finished, "He _himself_ carved the roast beast."

Sherlock grinned as he closed the book. "That's my favourite Christmas story. There's a movie about it, too. Two of them, actually. I haven't seen either. I don't watch very much telly...now, especially."

 

John listened and listened and listened to the story, making all his comments and little gasps at the appropriate times, (such as when something particularly devious was happening) but it all ended well, and the Grinch even became one of the good guys at the end. It was a good story, and he decided he liked it.

He especially liked the part about Max and the antlers.

He felt tired, though, after the story was over, and he stretched a little and rolled on to his stomach.

"I can't believe you memorized all that," he said, and he was genuinely impressed. John had an okay memory, but nothing like _that._ "There isn't a lot on telly anyway," he told him. "Sometimes things are okay, but the really good stuff I can't watch because mum says it's not appropriate for me. So I like to go outside a lot instead."

He couldn't help but wonder what it was that Sherlock did now, though. If he couldn't see, then he couldn't watch telly or movies or go running around much. If you saw nothing, then how did you...do anything, really?

He wasn't sure he should ask, though, so he didn't. Instead he said, "When are you coming to the park again? Dad might not take me again because it's cold outside and he doesn't like sitting in the cold unless there's a pretty woman to talk to. That's the only reason we were there so long today."

 

Sherlock was pleased that John was impressed by how he had memorised the entire book. It was because he'd read it four times. He knew all the words and he knew which words were on which page, and even what each and every one of the pictures looked like.

"My mum tells me that a lot of things on telly are inappropriate, too. I go outside sometimes, and I do a lot of experiments and read. I like to read a lot. I don't have very many books in braille now, though, but I think I'll get some more for Christmas. I hope I do."

After yawning softly, Sherlock rolled over onto his back. He stretched his arm back behind his head, propping it up, and then sighed.

Sherlock didn't understand why John's father only iked to sit in the park if there was a pretty woman. Sherlock didn't think girls had cooties or anything of the sort, but what was so great about talking to _anyone_? Well, anyone besides John. John was fine.

"Your father should talk to your mom," Sherlock pointed out. "I don't think my mother would be very happy if my father talked to pretty women and she didn't know about it. Then again, I don't know if it'd be better if she did know about it. Maybe both would be bad."

Maybe John's father and mother were different, though. Sherlock didn't know.

"I don't know when I'll go to the park again, but I wish I did, so I could tell you. Then maybe we could meet." Sherlock frowned. "My birthday is on January sixth. Maybe our parents would let you come over for cake and ice cream. Do you like cake?"

 

"I like cake okay. I love ice cream. My favorite is strawberry, especially if there is chunks of strawberry in it."

John felt his stomach grumble at just the thought of having a big slice of cake and a side of ice cream with it and his mouth nearly watered. Or maybe it did, just a little bit.

"Do you have birthday parties?" John asked, rolling to his back, and although he didn't know it, and had no way to know it, he was mimicking the exact position Sherlock was currently laying in. He pushed down the covers a little bit so he could get a little air. "My birthday is in July. I don't have a lot of parties, though. I don't know a lot of other people my age, so it's usually just my sister and my parents. I'm trying to get mum to let me transfer to a real school so maybe I can have a real one sometime."

He would definitely ask if he could go to Sherlock's birthday though, if he decided to have one. It would be his first, but John wasn't naive enough not to know how they worked. Kids came, brought gifts, played games, ate cake. Fun stuff.

"I bet they will say yes, if I ask," John murmured. After all, Sherlock was blind so he couldn't really see John's little affliction. His parents, yes, but he wasn't going to be playing with them.

Nobody had to know.

 

Sherlock made sure to remember that John's favourite kind of ice cream was strawberry. It wasn't his favourite, but if John did get to come to his birthday party (such as it was), he wanted there to be something that John liked for him to eat.

Sherlock didn't have parties. He'd never bothered. He didn't have any friends, and he didn't really like his extended family, his aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, so why would he have wanted any of them to come and spend time with him? He _didn’t_.

Although, they did bring him presents sometime. He still didn't like them, but the presents were always nice to have.

Except when they were bad presents and his mother and father still made him say 'thank you'. He didn't like that.

"I want to transfer to a real school, too," Sherlock told John, even though there was a part of him (a _small_ part!) that was afraid of what it would be like to go to a real school now that he was blind. Would people be mean to him, or would they help him, like John did?

Maybe if John went with him...

Sherlock inhaled in surprise at his own thought, the sound coming out as a gasp. "We could go to the same school!"

That would be _brilliant_. John could help get him to his classes and help him with things he couldn't see, like what his teacher wrote on the board and what the books said, and he could help John with his homework because he was _smart_.

"If you come to my party, and it goes well, maybe our parents would let us go to school together," he said excitedly. "Why wouldn’t they let us?"

 

John's tail instinctively, (and completely beyond his control) began to sway from side to side, just a little bit quicker at the thought of getting to do what Sherlock had suggested. They had only just met that morning, but John liked Sherlock. He was nice to John and had seemed interesting; John certainly hadn't ever known any other kid who did experiments or knew one-hundred thousand digits of pi. He certainly didn't know any other kid who was blind, even if that part didn't seem as important to John. It was a part of him, but he seemed to be adjusting easily enough to it, wasn't he?

"I don't know," John agreed. "It would be stupid not to."

He sat up into a sitting position and the covers pooled in his lap. He glanced around his dark room and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"But where would we go? I don't live in London like you do. How could we go to the same school if we don't live in the same place?"

 

John's question was an excellent one, but Sherlock didn't have an answer for it. Was that how school worked? You had to live close to people in order to go to school with them? Oh...that wouldn't work out well for them, then, because Sherlock was in London and John wasn't. Darn!

Even asking their parents to drive them to and from school wouldn't work. That would be far too much work, and Sherlock knew his parents wouldn't go along with it. If they went to a school for really, really smart boys, where they got to live with on campus, then it wouldn't matter where they lived before going to school, but that would be expensive and John probably wouldn't be able to afford it.

If he was smart enough, maybe he could get a scholarship, but Sherlock didn't know how smart you had to be to win one of those. He just knew that he was smart enough to do so.

"I guess it was a bad idea," Sherlock said glumly, feeling his heart sink a little. It hadn't seemed so at first, but now that he realised there was no way to actually make it happen, he felt silly for ever suggesting it in the first place.

"Maybe we'll have to wait until we can drive to see each other again. That'll be...nine years." He frowned. "That's a really, really long time. That's even longer than I've been alive.”

 

John, too, felt himself deflate a little bit at the thought that it would be nine whole years before they got to see each other again. Would Sherlock even _remember_ John in nine years? Would John? John didn't even know where he would be by them, and he certainly didn't know if it were even possible to remember someone for that long.

"I guess so," John said sadly. He looked around his room again, pausing to stare at the door and listen in case he heard anything from the other side. He really, really didn't like the idea that Sherlock could forget about him, but he didn't know what he could do about it. There was no way that his parents would let him freely go and have a friend who lived in the city; they would be too afraid that John would get into some sort of trouble or draw too much unwanted attention to himself in a place that was so crowded with adults, and because Sherlock was blind, his parents weren't going to just let him come to John's house on his own.

It seemed that their chance meeting in the park was just that. A chance.

"You can still call sometimes," John offered softly. "And I'll promise that I won't forget you if you do the same. And then when we get older we can do stuff together and play pirate hunters and you can do experiments and I can watch you."

 

Sherlock didn't want to have to wait until he got older to play with John, but it didn't seem like they had any other choice. At least that was an option, though. That was better than nothing, wasn't it? It wasn't what Sherlock would have preferred, but he would take it if it was all he was going to get.

"I'll still call you sometime," Sherlock promised. "How about every Thursday night?"

That way, John could make sure that he was always by the phone, if they did it at the same time, on the same night, every week. It would be much easier than him just keeping a phone nearby, or remaining by the phone himself, and it would spare Sherlock having to get up and feeling his way into the living room for the phone.

"Oh, and I won't forget you, either. You know how good I am at remembering things, right? So I won't forget about you, because I really, really don't want to."

Sherlock would think about John everyday if that was what it took to remember him. He was a nice boy and the only one that Sherlock even knew, so of course he didn't want to forget about his new friend.

Or whatever John was to him.

Sherlock had just thought of another question to ask John when he heard a rather loud cough coming from down the hall. It startled him so much that he nearly dropped the phone, but he held it up to his ear and whispered, "I have to go. Bye, John," before quickly hanging it up.

Sherlock clicked the phone off and then sat in the dark, silent. He heard more coughing and then Mycroft's heavy footsteps as his brother crossed the hall and went into the bathroom. Sherlock could hear water going into a cup and then the sound of pills rattling, then his brother set the cup back down and returned to his room. Mycroft hadn't been feeling well in the morning; maybe he was getting a cold.

Once Mycroft's door was shut, Sherlock crept back to his room. His fingertips brushed against the walls as he counted six, seven, eight, nine, ten feet, and then found the opening of his bedroom door. It was fifteen steps from the door to his bed, and then Sherlock crawled up into it and pulled the blanket over his body.

He went to sleep thinking about John, and he even dreamed about him. He had no idea what John looked like, but in his dreams he could see him perfectly all the same.

 


	4. Chapter 4

John wasn't very happy after he hung up the phone with Sherlock; a sadness had seemed to settle in him at the possibility that, even if Sherlock did call him every Thursday night, they wouldn't ever get to actually play together ever. It was the first almost-sort-of-friend that John had made and because of his...little affliction, he wasn't going to be able to see him.

It wasn't fair.

John didn't feel this way about any other kid or family member, so he didn't know why he felt such a strong connection to the other boy, but he just found himself wanting to be near him.

He hoped he would be getting his cane soon so he wouldn't get lost again.

But John put the thought away and did the only thing he could do; go to bed.

Only it didn't seem to get any better in the following days.

Every day the phone rang, John would look up suddenly and rush over to where his mum picked it up, looking up at her with big eyes, (much to her confusion) and wait to hear who was on the other end.

Always, with disappointment, it was never who he thought.

By the fourth day of this, in which John found himself waking himself up in the middle of the night whining softly to himself, (and he was only embarrassed by it if Harry heard him, which had only been once) he groaned and rolled over on his side to card his fingers through his blonde hair, trying desperately to get the image of the curly-haired boy out of his head and calm his slightly racing heart.

Pathetic! What was wrong with him?!

He didn't have Sherlock's phone number, so he couldn't call him. He didn't know his last name, or where he lived. All he knew was his name, and that was...it.

The next time Sherlock called him, he would have to figure out something.

 

The next several days, Sherlock was bored. He felt restless. One of the worst things about being blind, for him (and probably everyone else), was the fact that he felt like he was trapped inside of his own head. And really, he was. He couldn't open his eyes and look around to distract himself; he couldn't watch telly or stare at pictures or scenery. Nothing. He was just _stuck_.

Of course Sherlock had a wonderful memory, and he had images in his head of his parents, Mycroft, his room, his front and backyards, the neighbouring houses and buildings and roads...he could picture all of those things, but it wasn't the same as actually being able to see them. Nothing would replace that.

He decided it would have been better if he'd been born blind. He would never have known what it was like to see, then, and he wouldn't know what he was missing out on now. It would be black, all the time, and he would be fine with that because he wouldn't know any better.

Sherlock did some more work on learning braille. He knew the alphabet and was now just getting used to feeling words and sentences, paragraphs and passages. It was weird that he had to learn how to read all over, but he was doing so very quickly. While she was in the kitchen baking banana bread, his mother quizzed him on his French vocabulary. He was doing excellently with that, too.

Sherlock spent a lot of time thinking about John. He wanted to know where John lived, what he was doing, if he was thinking about _him_. He wondered if John had smelled any weird smells lately, or if he had helped any other little boys find their parents. He wondered if John was playing hunter or wolf, and if he'd used his toy gun at all. He hoped John's mother had let him have it like she'd said she was going to.

Thursday finally arrived. Sherlock couldn't wait to call John. He set his little alarm clock to go off at eleven, and he tucked it beneath his pillow so the sound would be muffled when it chimed. He fell asleep for a few hours and then woke up to the soft music coming from the clock. When he opened his bedroom door, intending to go to the living room to call John, he heard both his mother and father there, talking. Argh!

There was nothing to do but wait until they went to bed. Fortunately, it only took them twenty-two minutes to do so (Sherlock counted them off), and when he heard snoring coming from their bedroom, he slowly walked down the hallway and dialed John's number, which was still fresh in his mind.

 

John had made sure he was awake for when Sherlock called him, but for just a moment, he was afraid that Sherlock had forgotten about him when his alarm clock blinked 11:05, 11:10, 11:25...

He felt himself deflating all over again and he hated that he couldn't shake this strange sense of disappointment, (because truly, John couldn’t help it; it wasn't normal, not at all, but he didn't know quite how to explain to his parents that he felt this way. They wouldn't understand; he had only met Sherlock once!).

But then, the phone rang, and John picked it up so quickly that he almost forgot to even say 'hello' when he lifted it up to his face.

Immediately, his tail began to wag.

"Sherlock," he breathed, and immediately he yanked the covers up over his head. "I've been thinking about you all week and I realized I don't know your last name and so I don't know how to tell my parents about you."

He paused, ears twitching as he listened for any sign of movement from outside his room. His parents had been asleep for only a half an hour or so, but he knew that Harry was awake, still, and watching telly.

"Did you ever get a cane? You haven't gotten lost again, have you?"

 

A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips as soon as he heard John's voice. He wanted to outright smile, but in the back of his head were Mycroft's words--'Stop _smiling_ , Sherlock.'

Mycroft didn't think it was decent to smile so much, he supposed, although Sherlock couldn't understand why. Weren't smiles supposed to be good things? Mycroft had always been strange, but even Sherlock thought _that_ was a step too far. Even so, Mycroft was smarter than he was...so maybe he was right.

"I got a cane," he affirmed. "And my last name is Holmes."

John was talking so fast that Sherlock barely had time to reply, or to answer his questions or make any comments of his own, but he didn't mind. His mind was able to dissect each and every thing that John said, piecing it together and filing it away inside his mind as best he could.

"Your last name is Watson," Sherlock told the other boy, feeling a bit superior (when didn't he?) because he knew something about John that John hadn't known about him. "I heard my mother tell my father about _your_ father. She said he was very nice but also...'on-edge'. Do you know what that means?"

Even though Sherlock couldn't see, he couldn't imagine that John's father had been standing on any edges right in the middle of a toy store.

"Have you been playing with your gun? I've played with my sword. I made a mark on the wall, and I had to go to bed without dinner. I wasn't very hungry, anyway, so I didn't mind."

 

"My dad is always like that," John mumbled, even more quietly in the off chance that he would be heard.  "It means he's always mad or afraid or something." It wasn't that his dad was mean, per say, but he was... tense. All the time. He leaned more on the cool side, wasn't as warm as the dad's John would always see on the streets with their kids. It was like he was keeping his distance for a reason. His mum was certainly better, but even she had moments where she looked at John a little too long and John couldn't figure out what it was she was thinking.

"I played with my toy a little bit, but it was too cold out and mum made me come inside, and she doesn't like when I play rough in the house. She thinks I'm going to break something."

John didn't mind the cold, though. In fact, he enjoyed it. It felt good to him, and although he still needed to bundle up in a big coat on the colder days, he could stay outside all day and he wouldn't mind it.

"We're going to London this weekend," John informed Sherlock in another whisper. "I'm going to beg my mum to go to the park for a little bit. You should do that, too. My mum is nicer than my dad so she might even talk to your parents more than my dad did. Do you think they’ll let you?"

Sherlock felt suddenly hopeful upon hearing that John would be in London in only a few days. The day after tomorrow, wouldn't it be? Assuming Saturday was what he considered 'this weekend'. London was a huge city, but maybe, just maybe, they could see one another, if John was able to convince his mother to take him to the park.

And if Sherlock was able to convince his own parents, too.

"I think they might," he whispered back. "I'll have to ask them...maybe I can tell them that you told me last week that you would be at the park. I'll try to be there at two o'clock on Saturday. That'll give my parents time to run any errands they might want to do, and hopefully it won't be too crowded, either."

Sherlock was hopeful, yes, but he also knew that he shouldn't be getting his hopes up. Just because they would both be in London at the same time didn't mean they would see each other. It was the worst possible kind of tease, knowing that they were so close and yet so far from each other, and it made Sherlock wish that he was older than eight (and not for the first time).

"I won't be able to bring my sword, if I come," Sherlock told the other boy, frowning. "Mother and Father won't want me carrying it around with me. I heard them talking once; they say I attract attention. They don't mind, but I think it annoys them that people stare at me." Sherlock shrugged. "I guess I don't really care about it. It's not like I can see anyone doing it."

Of course Sherlock would have preferred that people not stare at him, but he might have done the same if he were able to see and saw a little boy wearing sunglasses and a cane. Not to be mean, but just out of curiosity. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

 

A smile tugged at John's mouth as he heard Sherlock tell him that he could tell his parents--and it was only a little white lie--that John had told him the week prior what the plan was. It was perfect. Fool proof, really. Who was to really know? It wasn't like John or Sherlock was going to spill the beans.

"That's okay," John said. "We can just pretend. I won't go easy on you though and I'm really good."

He smirked a little bit and his tail swished back and forth slowly before his smirk began to fade.

What if Sherlock happened to...notice? John would have to be careful, certainly, because if he suddenly brushed up against him or made too many strange noises, like what had happened in the store, Sherlock was bound to notice and bound to not want to play with him anymore. John could easily detect the question and weariness in his voice when he had asked why John had growled, but it really _had_  been unintentional.

Those boys were being too rough around him.

"I can meet you...oh, I guess you wouldn't be able to tell, would you? Do you remember what the park looks like? We could meet by the pond. My mum likes to sit there sometimes and watch the ducks."

 

"I remember the park," Sherlock said quickly. Of course he remembered the park. He was intimately familiar with the sandbox area, the playground equipment, the small pond. He knew where several anthills were, although they might be in different places now.

"We can meet by the pond," he agreed. "I know where it is. And I can tell my parents that we're meeting there, and they'll help me get there if I can't do it by myself. But I hope I can. I like doing things by myself."

That being said, Sherlock also liked John. He had thought about the other boy throughout the week, wondering what he was doing and if he was thinking about him, too. Sherlock wanted John to think he was smart, even though he was blind. He wanted John to think he was, for lack of a better word, cool.

"I don't want you to go easy on me, by the way. I want you to make it really, really hard for me to win. I like things when they're hard, just as long as they don't stay hard. Most things aren't hard for me, so when something is, I like it."

Learning how to live without eyesight was hard, but Sherlock didn't say that. He was getting used to it, slowly but surely, because he didn't have any other choice. There was no way for him to go back to how he had been before; he was stuck in the darkness for the rest of his life. All he could do was try to distract himself as best he could.

Which was sometimes easier than others.

Sherlock wet his lips. There was a question burning in his mind, and he decided that he would just go forward and ask it, rather than forever wondering.

"Did you think about me this week? I thought about you sometime. My neighbour came over to visit Mother and she brought her dog. It growled. It sounded just like you did in the toy store. I thought it was funny. You must make a really good wolf when you play make-believe."

 

When Sherlock told John that he had thought about him sometimes, John felt his chest tighten and a warmness spread over his face. His fingers threaded into his covers and he smiled, but he tried to make sure it didn't show too much in his voice.

"Almost every day," John told him. He couldn't say every day, though, because he didn't want Sherlock thinking he was pathetic. He still wanted Sherlock to think he was cool.

If he did at all.

He paused, then, and wet his own lips before asking Sherlock what was on _his_ mind.

"Do you...like dogs?" he asked him, trying not to sound like he cared, necessarily, but he was curious. "Do you have one? We don't. But I can do....good impressions, sometimes. But I don't play wolves all the time or anything," he added quickly. "Just sometimes."

If Sherlock didn’t like dogs, then John decided he would most certainly have to make sure he was careful around him.

 

Even though John couldn't see him, Sherlock nodded.

"I _lov_ e dogs."

He had always wanted one, but his mother and father had always said no because of Mycroft. While Sherlock was hoping they would let him get one, now--maybe to make him feel better after losing his sight--he wasn't very hopeful.

"I don't have one, either, but I want one. I want a seeing eye dog!" Even just talking about it made Sherlock excited. "I would teach him tricks, and take care of him, and pet him. He could sleep in my bed with me at night. And, when I go out, he would help me cross the street when it was safe, and if I got lost, he would help."

It sounded so exciting to Sherlock, and he wished he could convince his parents how great of an idea it was. Even so, though, he knew Mycroft would hate having a dog in the house, and his parents wouldn't want to make such a big change that was unfair to one of their sons.

Even though Sherlock being blind in the first place was unfair to _him_.

"What about cats?" Sherlock asked, just for the sake of keeping a conversation going. He didn't talk to people often, certainly no-one besides his family, so it was very different now, talking to John. "I think they're okay, but they're boring. I wouldn't want one. You can't do anything with them; you can't teach them anything. I would much rather have a dog."

 

John didn't like cats. Not just because they were boring or because they didn't do anything but walk around or sleep, but because every time he saw one, they always seemed to hiss at him, (and give him a nasty look, if animals were able) and John always had the desire to chase after them just because he could.

But he was very, very pleased to hear that Sherlock liked dogs. That made a warmth spread through his chest and his tail begin to wag again.

"Me either," he agreed. "Maybe you'll get your own dog someday. You should ask."

John entertained the thought, just briefly, about getting to live at Sherlock's house. He bet it was big and they probably had a huge back yard they could play in. Maybe even John could help him cross the streets sometime and take him to school. If they got older, John could help him get to his classes.

Of course, that was jumping the gun quiet a lot, but John was rather taken with the idea of having a friend.

"Remember Saturday," he told Sherlock. "I'll be there even if my mum doesn't want to go. I'll convince her."

He yawned a little bit and curled into his covers tighter.

"Sherlock Holmes," he repeated the name. "Now I know. I don't have as good a memory as you, but I won't forget that name. It's weird enough." He laughed softly. "I like it."

 

Sherlock knew he should ask his parents about giving him a dog. He planned to. Maybe he could get one for his birthday. His mother had already bought his Christmas gifts--at least, she said she had--but that left his birthday available.

Sherlock didn't like how his birthday and Christmas were so close together. By the time his birthday was finished, he had a lot of presents from this both but nearly an entire year to wait until he got presents again. That wasn't fair, either. Mycroft's birthday was in the early fall; he got presents and then he waited a few months until Christmas, and then he got _more_ presents. Sherlock would get things he wanted for his birthday and Christmas, but he would grow tired of them within a few weeks or months, and then he had to wait until December to get more.

Unless his parents were feeling generous, which they often were. Sherlock just happened to be a selfish child.

"I won't forget, John. I promise. The park on Saturday at two o'clock. By the pond. My parents will see you, or you can just come up to me. Maybe I'll be able to hear you." Sherlock chuckled. Teasingly he added, "Growl again, so I know it's you.”

Sherlock moved to the couch so he could lie down, flat on his back. He stared up at the ceiling, knowing that he wouldn't be able to see anything anyway, and imagined what it would be like when he saw John again. Hopefully they would have time to play, unlike the first time they'd met.

"My real name is William," Sherlock admitted, frowning. "I don't like it. It's a boring name. That's why I go by Sherlock, which is my middle name. Is John your real name?"

 

William. John hummed a little bit, but frowned. John heard the name 'William' many, many times. He liked 'Sherlock' much better. Even if he thought it was slightly strange at first, the week he had spent thinking about it, over and over and over again, made it stick with his image of the other boy in such a way that thinking he had some other one didn't feel right.

"John is my real name," he said, nodding. "I go by 'Johnny' a lot, though. My sister calls me Johnny and my mum does, sometimes. All of my paperwork says 'John', though. That's what my dad says, so he calls me 'John'."

He stretched again and rolled on his stomach. "It's common, but I can't imagine myself having any other name."

He grinned a little bit, then, at the image that Sherlock had conjured for them; John, growling right in Sherlock's ear, so that he would know it was him. It would probably sound a little more forced than how it had sounded before, but he thought he could probably do a pretty good imitation.

From outside his door, John heard a door opening, and he bit his lower lip, suddenly aware of just how loud he might have been talking. He could see light seeping in from beneath his door and he heard the door to Harry's room opening and a muffled, 'what are you doing in here?' from their father.

John swallowed a little before ducking back under the covers.

"I've got to go. I'll see you Saturday," he said quickly. "Don't forget; I'll make sure I'm there" before he hung up the phone fast, much like how Sherlock had done the week before.

 

John Watson. Sherlock liked the name a lot. It was simple, but strong at the same time. Even though it was common and a bit boring, it suited him. Not that Sherlock thought John was common or boring; he didn't think either. He liked him.

Sherlock's heart sank when John told him he had to go. They hadn't been talking long at all, and already it was coming to an end. He said 'bye', but he wasn't even sure if John heard him before he heard the steady dial tone coming through the phone. Sherlock hung it back up (after several unsuccessful attempts) and then walked back to his room and got in bed.

Sherlock couldn't sleep at all. He kept rolling over in his bed, picturing John and wondering what he looked like. He should have asked. Why didn't he ask?! He could picture him, then, instead of leaving it all to guesswork.

Saturday...maybe he could ask. Or, even better, he could actually touch John. He'd heard that blind people would touch other peoples' faces to see what they looked like, and he didn't see any reason why he couldn't do so.

Friday came and went, as boring as ever. Sherlock practiced his French more and cleaned his room at his parents' insistence. It took him longer than it used to, but he was actually glad to have a task to distract him, oddly enough. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough, even though he hadn't yet talked to his parents.

Saturday morning, Sherlock confronted them. He asked his mother if they could go to the park--at two o'clock, he made sure to add--and then stared up in his mother's direction, awaiting her answer.

She didn't give one right away, but he still sensed that she knew why he was asking.

"Of course, love," she said at last, putting her hand on his head and rubbing his curls. "We can go to the park. I'll have you there at two."

And she did. At two o'clock, Sherlock was bundled up in his wool coat and scarf, gloves on his hands and sunglasses over his eyes. He had his white, red-tipped cane beside him on the bench, and he stared in the direction of trickling water and quacking ducks, drumming his fingers on his knees.

The nearest clock--part of a church--suddenly chimed, twice, and Sherlock wet his lips. He would wait thirty minutes, he told himself. His mother was sitting on a bench a few yards away, reading a magazine, and Sherlock was just waiting.

 

Getting his parents to agree to going to the park that Saturday took a lot more work than John had thought it would. His father said no almost immediately, and John had just the slightest sneaking suspicion that he knew. John was never quite so adamant about a specific time and place that he wanted to go somewhere, and when questioned, he broke down and explained himself.

John had never been very good a lying.

He explained to them that he had made a new friend and he wanted to play with him, and he promised that nothing would happen. He wouldn't get into trouble. He wouldn't cause too much of a scene. He wouldn't do anything that would draw any unwanted attention to himself.

"Please," John had begged his mother. “Please! I have to see him, it's really, _really_ important."

Of course, he had a much more difficult time explaining just why that was, and he couldn't even put it into words himself.

But it seemed, if just once, his mother understood.

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea," she told her husband. "Maybe he just needs... socializing."

After that, it became just _slightly_ easier.

When it was all said and done, John found himself in London on Saturday. His father had gone out of town for the weekend anyway, and mum said that she might as well get a little shopping done while they were out, so John had to suffer through at least two hours of going in and out of shops, looking at clothes and perfumes, (none of which were actually bought because they were too expensive, said his mother forlornly) before they made their way to the park.

At twenty after two.

John was pulling on his mother's hand like, (for lack of a better image) a dog on a leash, yanking her and running his legs as fast as they could go towards the pond.

"Slow down, John," she had scolded, but once they hit the grass, John shook her off completely and made for the pond, just a ways away. His mother called something after him, and he turned his head to indicate he heard her, (something about not falling) before slowing to a walk.

He smelt, rather than saw, Sherlock immediately. From a little ways away, he saw Sherlock's mum reading a magazine, and he remembered Sherlock telling him that he should go and say hello to her, but he was almost too excited to remember that little detail.

Instead, he slowly, quietly walked over to the boy sitting in the grass and smiled. He stepped up behind him and began to growl. He was still young, hadn't hit puberty, so his vocal cords made the sound soft, but he knew Sherlock would hear him either way.

 

As Sherlock counted off the minutes one by one, he became less and less excited and more and more certain that John wasn't going to come. Maybe John had lied about wanting to. Maybe his parents hadn't let him. Maybe he'd never even intended to in the first place--maybe he just thought it was neat to know someone who was blind, but he didn't actually want to be friends.

Either way, his heart was sinking.

He had been so excited. He couldn't explain why, really, but he had wanted to see--more or less--John again, and he had wanted to talk to the boy and play with him. He hadn't been able to bring his sword, but he'd decided he could use his cane instead and just pretend that it was a sword. It was close enough, wasn't it? John could get a stick off the ground, surely there were some, and then they could play sword-fighting.

Sherlock knew his mother wouldn't like that, but maybe she would let it slide because he never got to play with _anyone_.

Sherlock was so focused on his own thoughts that he didn't even hear someone coming up behind him. He didn't hear the soft footsteps or the rustling in the grass, but he did hear the rumbling growl in his ear.

Immediately, he smiled.

"Hi, John."

Sherlock turned around a little bit to face the other boy. He wished he could see what John looked like, but maybe he could ask. He wanted to wait until it came up in conversation or something, though, because he knew he would look weird if he just suddenly asked to feel John's face.

"Oh!" Sherlock reached into his pocket and got out a little baggie of chocolate chocolate-chip cookies, his favourite kind, and held them out to John. "My mother made those and I stole a few for you. I told her not to put nuts in them, because I didn't know if you were allergic or not. I actually like nuts."

Sherlock wet his lips and looked around, wishing he could see something, anything. He was still new to being blind, and it was as if he hoped that, by looking in all directions, he would eventually find something that was visible to him. He could hear ducks quacking and the water in the pond trickling; he could hear the rustling of leaves and children laughing, but he couldn't _see_ any of it.

"I started to think you weren't coming. I was going to leave in another ten minutes."

 

John took the bag of cookies with wide eyes and smile in Sherlock's direction.

"Thank you," he said, before sitting down in the grass so he could take one out. They were soft, despite the cold, which John was glad for, because those kinds tasted better than the rock-hard ones.

"My mum wanted to shop," John explained to Sherlock. "I told her we had to be here by two, and she kept saying that we would be, but then she lost track of time."

John was very glad that he hadn't been too late, though. If he had come here and Sherlock had already left…that would have been terrible. It would have been a wasted trip and then Sherlock might not have called him again.

He looked around towards his mum, who from a ways away, took a seat on the bench near Sherlock's mum, but he didn't wait to see if the two struck up any sort of conversation before he was turning his attention back to Sherlock.

There were all sorts of new smells on him, up close. He could smell the faint aroma of cookies on his jacket, along with his mum's perfume right at his collar. But when there was a small wind in John's direction, he could smell _Sherlock_ ,  and it was  a smell John very much enjoyed.

John reached for Sherlock's hand and took it in his own before lightly tugging on it.

"Do you want to go play now?"

 

Sherlock wondered what John's mother had wanted to shop for, but it didn't really matter so he didn't bother asking. The only reason he would have done so was because he was curious and wanted to picture her and John shopping. If John was anything like Sherlock, he thought shopping was boring.

Of course Sherlock would enjoy himself sometime, but only if they were shopping for something for him. New books or a new microscope, something of that nature, he could enjoy that. But shopping for clothes, or even worse, his _mother_ shopping for clothes? Sherlock hated that.

Sherlock looked down at his hand when he felt John's fingers closing around it and he smiled. He stood up and brushed off the backs of his trouser legs, not wanting any dirt or leaves to be stuck on them, and then he looked around. He remembered where things were in the park, but it would be easier if John would simply take him somewhere.

Either way, of course he wanted to play. He had been waiting to play with John all week, and now he just hoped that his mother and John's would actually allow them to spend a good bit of time with one another, rather than making them go home early. Who knew when they would get to play with each other again?

"How about we ride on the swings?" he suggested. "Or we can go down the slide. Oh! Or I can show you the squirrel's nest I found. It's in a tree trunk, by the water fountain."

Sherlock frowned. He put his finger on his lips, lightly tapping it as he turned himself around in a circle, then back, trying to orient himself.

"The water fountain is...over here, right?"

 

The swings, the slide, the squirrel's nest... It didn't necessarily matter to John what they did. Now that he was actually with Sherlock, looking at him, standing right next to him, he was forced to wonder if he had behaved a bit foolishly, having being so clingy to the idea of him the whole week, but he still couldn't bring himself to mind it all that much.

"Over here," John said, slowly moving to Sherlock's right and tugging him along. He didn't know how on earth anyone managed to get around being blind, but surely there were ways. John wasn't so sure there was anything he could do to necessarily help that, but he decided he could at least try.

"I saw a dead bird the last time I was here," John said. "I wanted to bury it, but my dad told me not to touch it."

As they walked, John kept his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's slightly smaller hand, and it made John feel good, like he was protecting him. There was no snow on the ground, but the grass crunched just so from the cold and for a moment, John worried that maybe he should have found a way to meet Sherlock inside somewhere, in case the other boy were too cold.

"I've never seen a squirrel's nest before," he informed the other boy. "They don't lay eggs, right? That's just birds and stuff."

 

Sherlock was glad that John's father hadn't let him touch the bird. Although Sherlock, too, would have wanted to touch it--not to bury it, necessarily (not at first, anyway), but because he would have wanted to study and experiment on it, maybe even take a few feathers to keep.

He was also glad that John was holding his hand. It made him feel secure and safe, even more so than when he was holding his mother's hand, or even his father's. Sherlock didn't know why that was, but it didn't matter, either. All that mattered right now was that he was with John again and they had the opportunity to play and get to know each other better.

"Squirrels don't lay eggs, silly.” Sherlock laughed softly while shaking his head. "That is only reptiles and birds. And platypuses. I think they're mammals. Oh, and fish. And insects. Everything _other_ than mammals."

As far as he knew, anyway.

With each step they took, Sherlock knew they were getting closer and closer, and he could even sense that it was familiar territory. He extended his hand and, a few steps late, felt his fingers brush over the water fountain.

"The tree is right over here," he said, pulling gently on John's hand so he could guide the other boy to the left. He kept one hand out in front of him, even though he knew John could have just as easily told him to stop when they were getting too close. When he felt the rough bark against his fingertips, he crouched down and felt around the bottom of the trunk.

"It's around here somewhere," he murmured, wiping his hands on his trousers when they became slick with frost on the leaves. "You can probably see it. Obviously I can't."

Sherlock moved to be on his knees, his hands on them, and he looked up at John.

"I liked reading to you. And talking to you on the phone. I've never really done it with anyone else before."

 

John crouched down on the grass so that he could get look at the nest, but if he were being honest, he could smell them before anything.

It wasn't that John was all _that_ different from a normal boy. There were just... things about him that were a little bit... off. He had a tail that was currently tucked into his trousers. His ears, golden and tanned at the tips were currently pinned (uncomfortably) to his head. He was forced to keep his hair slightly on the longer side because it helped to cover them a bit better, but John really didn't like that, because it sometimes his fringe got into his eyes. He had an uncanny ability to smell things and hear things that other people couldn't, and there were a few traits to him that would be known as being relatively 'canine' in nature.

An occasional growl when he felt threatened. A whimper when scolded. The strong desire to be praised, especially by adults, (his brain seemed to pulse with the occasional feeling of something he couldn't quite place--things like, 'leader', or 'alpha male', a title which he couldn't quite seem to want to be someday or respond to).

Otherwise, he liked to play spots, when he could. He liked to colour sometimes, liked to read books and play pretend and watch telly and movies. Sometimes he got a little shy around girls.

All and all, he was normal.

Mostly.

"I liked that too," he responded, looking at Sherlock. "Maybe once you learn brail you can read me more books." He grinned a little, even if the other boy couldn't see. "Maybe in person."

Inside the nest, he couldn't see much, except for one squirrel, all bunched up in on itself, no doubt keeping warm from the cold. There were no babies, though, and John didn't know how long it would be until there would be.

He stood back up again before squinting the eyes in the distance. There weren't nearly as many people out as there were the day they had met, and that was probably a good thing, considering they were wandering around a good distance away from their mum's.

"Are you going to be a professional story-teller when you grow up?" John asked him, grinning again. He knew such a thing didn't exist, really.

Didn’t it? Actually, he didn’t know.

"I don't know what I want to be, yet."

 

Sherlock had never heard of professional story tellers. Maybe they were people who read books aloud and got taped doing it, so that other people could listen? Although, that wasn't really telling a story so much as it was reading one, was it?

Either way, Sherlock knew that he most definitely didn't want to be a professional story-teller. It sounded boring to him, and he didn't want to do anything that was boring.

He'd had an idea of what he wanted to do, but it had been a silly idea in the first place. Mycroft had said so, anyway, and Mycroft was always right. Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was true.

He had wanted to be a detective, or maybe even a police officer. Something of that sort. When he had been young (not that he wasn't now), he'd wanted to be a pirate. It hadn't taken him very long to realise that the pirates of today weren't anything like the ones in his storybooks. The ones in his books had wanted gold and adventure; they killed people when they were under attack or when people tried to steal their gold, but it didn't seem to be all they did.

Sherlock had heard about pirates in Somalia, and they killed a _lot_ of people. Maybe people were trying to steal their treasure? Either way, it seemed a bit excessive to Sherlock, and he didn't want to have to kill people just to be a pirate.

He would find adventure some other way.

"I wanted to do some things before I went blind," Sherlock said, shrugging. He bit down on his bottom lip. "I don't know what I want to do, now. I researched famous blind people. They were teachers, musicians, actors, singers. I don't think I want to do any of those things."

Some had been inventors, or scientists. Sherlock was far more interested in those careers, although he didn't know what his chances would be for them. Still, if anyone could be successful, it would be him, right? He was _smart_.

Sherlock opened up his cane and lightly tapped John's shoulder with it, smirking.

"En garde, Watson!"


	5. Chapter 5

When John felt the tip of Sherlock's cane on his shoulder, his mouth immediately began to split into a grin and he looked around on the ground quickly for something that he could pick up.

Unfortunately for him, there wasn't anything close by enough that could be used as a good sword, just a few broken pieces of sticks, (some looking rather flimsy) but it was the best he could do, so he quickly swiped one up and lightly tapped the end of Sherlock's cane to show him that he, too, was now armed.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I'll have you walking the plank!"

It could have been anything that they were suddenly playing, but John didn't really seem to care either way. Pirates or hunters or swordsmen or samurais. Maybe a combination of all three. Maybe it was just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

"If you were a pirate, you'd have an eye patch," John told him thoughtfully, tapping his cane a little bit harder with his stick. "So at least you already look the part a little bit."

He smirked at Sherlock, the tail in his trousers fighting to start wagging at the idea of play, but he ignored it. He was learning every day how to control his own body impulses, but sometimes it still came through a bit.

"Come on, now, Sherlock Holmes. Let's see these fancy fighting skills of yours."

 

Sherlock knew that, with his lack of eyesight, John was in more danger than he was from accidental injuries. He would control his movements, but he still might unintentionally hit his cane against John's face or his neck, his arm or shoulder--anywhere, really.

Still, he had an idea of how tall John was, and he could use that to estimate where certain body parts were. Given the sound of John's voice, he was standing about a yard and a half from where Sherlock was, so he knew how to move his cane while still avoiding the other boy.

If something _did_ happen, he trusted that John knew it was entirely accidental.

Sherlock lifted his left hand up in the air, in proper fencing stance, and tapped his tap against John's stick. He could tell it was a stick and a rather flimsy one at that, so he took it into account. He would have to be gentle, even more so than he'd already planned to be.

"Having me walk the plank won't do you any good," Sherlock warned the other boy, hitting John's stick again as he took a step forward. "My crew is completely loyal to me. You'll have a mutiny on your hands."

A cold breeze blew past them, rustling Sherlock's curls and caressing his face. He imagined that it was a sea breeze and that he could smell the salt and ocean water, that he could hear the waves splashing against the side of his boat and feel the warm sun on his skin.

"I would need two eye patches," he told John with a grin. "I might as well, right?"

He knew he would look goofy with two eye patches, but it was a _joke_. Besides, they would look similar to his sunglasses, which he already had on to keep others from seeing his blank stare.

"I'm not giving you my treasure. Ever."

 

When the wind blew, John could smell Sherlock clearly, (despite him being in his direct line of sight, of course) and his mouth drew upwards into a lazy, but playful, smirk.

"You won't have to give me anything," he told him assuredly. "I'll just take it. You and your whole crew; once they see who's the better fighter, they'll turn their allegiance to me!"

Allegiance. That was the right word from the movies, wasn't it?

Regardless!

John began to circle around Sherlock as he spoke, waving his stick between his fingers as he did so. He did like to think of himself as a pretty great fighter, so if he was overly confident, that were the reason.

Though, mostly it was because Harry and he were almost unnaturally competitive with each other, so he was forced to try and be the best all the time.

Of course, John had no formal training of fencing and he didn't know what actual proper stance was. His style was more akin to pretending he was like one of the guys on telly and just go all out.

He swung his stick at Sherlock's cane and hit the side, with just enough force for there to be a loud 'knock' sound in the air between them, and he felt his smirk grow wider. His eats twitched at the sound and he repeated the motion, stepping forward, towards Sherlock and knocking their swords together.

"Are you afraid of me, Captain Holmes?"

 

Sherlock didn't have to think about John's question, not at all. He knew the answer right away, and he was pleased with it, too.

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of _anything_.”

Well, maybe that was a little fib, but it was different when they were playing, wasn't it? In real life, Sherlock was afraid of getting lost again. It had only happened to him once, but that was more than enough.

What if it did happen again, though? Sherlock told his parents that it would be wise to get him a mobile phone, but they hadn't been willing to do so as of yet. That may change, eventually, but they seemed to think he was too young to need one right now. While that may have been so, Sherlock would readily remind them that he was blind.

He had a feeling that he would be using his blindness to end a lot of arguments definitively.

Sherlock took another step forward and hit his cane against John's stick. After another quick lunge forward, he let out a triumphant 'Ha ha!' and, after knocking John's stick aside, pressed the tip of his cane into John's shoulder, gently but firmly.

"I hope you're not letting me win, matey," he told John, smirking. He was glad that John had called him 'Captain' Holmes, because that was exactly the role Sherlock always wanted to take when he played pirates, even though he normally didn't get the opportunity because Mycroft was too bloody prideful.

Sherlock took a few steps back, one after another, until his foot got caught on an shallow hole in the ground and he fell backwards, right on his backside. It was startling enough to make him gasp as he fell, and his cane fell out of his hand, leaving him completely open to an attack.

"You seem to have caught me at a disadvantage, Watson. Well played."

 

When Sherlock fell, John's eyes widened, but not necessarily in fright. His ears twitched against the pins and his heart sped up in excitement.

"I've got you now, Captain. You're completely at my mercy.”

John lifted up his stick and used the very end to lightly tap the front of Sherlock's coat, but didn't actually poke him with it.

"Don't think I'll show you mercy. I've heard all about your lot," John improvised dramatically. "You're a bunch of thieves and scoundrels and I'm going to take everything from you."

He stepped back, just so, and lowered his stick. He knew Sherlock couldn't see him, but wearing his glasses, it was almost easy enough for John to forget that fact, and he smirked at him.

"Now get up, Holmes, your sword is on your left. And do your worst!"

He was noble, after all. Or so he liked to believe. He wouldn't let a silly little hole be the reason that he beat this captain.

"If I beat you, I take back your treasure and take over your crew while you become fish food. That's a promise!"

 

Sherlock had thought before about what it would be like to play pirates with somebody, but he never would have imagined that it would be so fun. The things John were saying made Sherlock feel like what they were doing was real,  even though he knew he knew in his head that it wasn't.

Grasping around on his left hand side, Sherlock quickly found his cane and pushed himself off the ground. When he was on two feet again, he held his cane out in front of him, carefully moving it back and forth. It brushed against John, but he did have a hard time finding him again, partly because he kept moving around to try and prevent John from being able to hit him with his stick.

"I see no reason why we can't settle this like gentlemen," he told John, his cane out in front of him, poised like a jewel-encrusted saber. "Why, I might even suggest that you and I take control of this motley crew together and whip them into shape. What say you, Watson?"

That _did_ sound fun. Sherlock liked to imagine what it would be like for him and John to have their own pirate ship, with people listening to their every order. He would be the Captain, of course, and John could be his first mate--his eyes.

From where she sat, Wilma Holmes ganced up from her magazine and smiled. The two boys seemed to have having a grand time, which was exactly what she had hoped for her son. She'd known that Sherlock wanted to come to the park to see John; she wasn't a fool by any stretch of the imagination. Fortunately, she knew that her son wasn't, either, and that he would be careful while playing such a dangerous game.

 

Allies! Interesting...

The idea was most enticing, John was forced to admit. Being Sherlock's first-mate, his eyes and ears and trusted companion while the two ruled over a tough and rumble crew of misfits, sailing the ocean together, looking for treasure and adventures and trouble... Well, that was better than going about it alone, he decided.

So he lowered his stick and stood up straight before holding out his hand slowly.

" _Gentleman’s_ agreement," he said, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's to indicate he was trying to shake his hand. When Sherlock found his, he squeezed it firmly. "They won't stand a chance against us."

There was something in that moment that had John smirking just a little bit wider, and it had less to do with the game they were playing as it did that he felt something was starting between them. Although John couldn't explain it, he had a very good sense that Sherlock Holmes was going to play quite a role in his life.

Though what that would be, was yet to be determined.

"Where should we head first, Captain?”

He paused, then, to glance over to where his own mum was sitting. She wasn't on the same bench as Sherlock's mum, but was watching John and Sherlock with a curious expression. John was actually surprised because she didn't look wary, as usual. Just...curious. As if she was thinking about something. He saw her look at Mrs. Holmes, probably noticing her nice clothes and fancy hair. Comparatively, they did look quite different in class.

John wondered if it were obvious between him and Sherlock, too.

But he pushed the thoughts aside again. A gust of cold air swept past them, ruffling his blonde hair.

"Well Captain?"

 

Sherlock gave serious thought to John's inquiry, as if it really mattered where their first destination was, as if they were actually out at sea, rather than just playing in the middle of a London park. He hummed and looked around, even going so far as to put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

It was all for the sake of playing a role, of course, as Sherlock couldn't see and there wasn't really much sun. It was the middle of the day, but--as was typical for London--the sun was mostly hidden beneath a thick layer of clouds, making everything appear darker than it should have been, and all the more dreary for it.

However, Sherlock felt anything but dreary. His heart was racing in his chest and all he could think about was how much he was enjoying himself. He had never had a proper first mate before, and now that he did, he didn't want it to stop. Ever. He wanted to explore islands with John and sail all across the seven seas, even if everything was entirely imaginary.

There was nothing wrong with that.

Holding his cane out in front of him, Sherlock kept hold of John's hand in his other and started to lightly tap the ground, just as his mother had taught him. When he stepped out with his left foot, he tapped his cane to the right. When his right foot stepped out, his cane went to the left. It was long, capable of detecting things up to four feet in front of him, but even so, Sherlock kept his hand up in the air when he walked, as if to prevent himself from bumping into anything. He was becoming better at that (slowly but surely), but he wasn't yet there.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure if he ever would be, really, but he kept reminding himself that he was the second-smartest person he knew, and that if normal people could do it, he could do it, too. He could even do it better than they could.

"Let's go check on the cannons," he decided. "We need to make sure they're all loaded and cleaned for the next big skirmish we get into. You know the way below, don't you?"

 

John nodded, never quite registering that Sherlock couldn't actually see him doing so, before leading the way across their grassy patch to where the pretend deck was located, (which was a little ways past the tree trunk).

"I hear there's a man that's been looking for you, captain," he informed Sherlock darkly. "Old Blackbeard. Whispers on the wind says he's coming for you. Don't worry, though. Now that I'm on your side, he can't touch you."

Like most kids, John's mind was jumping from this to that, improving their little make believe story as they went, without any real need for logic or continuity. John certainly didn't think in those parameters.

But there was a sudden wafting in the air and John lifted his head up and sniffed. Somewhere, from across the field, someone was grilling food on the sidewalk and John's mouth watered just as the thought.

In all likelihood, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to smell it, though.

What John wished he could do, and quite desperately, was take the pins out that were holding down his ears. Sometimes it was okay, but more often than not John stayed at home, which meant he was allowed to keep them naturally upright. He chanced a look to his mum, but she was still keeping an eye on them enough that he couldn't risk it.

"What say ye, captain? Think anyone will stand the chance against us?"

 

Sherlock nearly felt a shiver go up his spine at the thought of having a pirate pursuing him. Another pirate, that is, since he was one himself. He and John and all the other men who were on his crew, they were all dirty, smelling, rough-and-tumble pirates.

Then again, pirates would never hold hands like he and John were doing, even if their captain was blind. That being said, Sherlock didn't pull his hand away from John's. He liked the security that came along with it, and it also made him feel--stupidly--that he would get to play with John longer if he actually continued to touch him.

"I was never worried, John," Sherlock said as sternly as he could, lifting his head in defiance. "Captains don't get worried. They're the bravest members of the crew. That's why they're the Captain."

It made sense to Sherlock, at least.

His cane remained out in front of him as he walked, tapping to the left and to the right. He could feel the grass beneath the tip, the sand when they walked past the sandbox, and even the overgrown root of an old tree stump. When they stopped, Sherlock turned in a circle and explored the area with his cane. He was familiar with the spot; the park was still the same as it had been when he had been able to see, and he was glad for that.

"Nobody will stand a chance against us," he said firmly. He stuck his cane in the soft ground--despite knowing that his mother would roll her eyes because he'd intentionally gotten it muddy--and then took off his scarf, tying it to the handle to try and serve as some sort of pirate flag. It didn’t work; all it did was hang down and brush against the wet ground, but he'd still made the effort.

"We need a name for our ship. I had a toy ship once that I named The Filthy Eel. I dropped it, though, and it broke." Sherlock paused suddenly, realising that he had dropped out of character. "But that was when I was a wee lad," he added in his best pirate accent. "I don't play with toys anymore, and I ain't seen me mudder in years."

Well, a month. And that was ignoring the fact that she was sitting on the bench, watching the two boys play over her magazine, and smiling.

 

A pirate ship name was most definitely needed, John decided and he placed his hands on his hips as he looked about the park with a scrutinizing gaze, as if looking out into the vast ocean.

"The Filty Eel, eh?" John asked. "That's a scallywag name for a ship! We need something that's going to be... mysterious sounding! Dangerous, too."

Just then, a woman and her husband passed by them, and given John's quick gaze, his eyes followed them, and to the white coffee cups they were each holding, both which had a strange green drawing of some sort of women with fins and long hair.

"Our ship should be called The Mermaid's--Mermaid's Wrath!"

The Mermaid's Wrath sounded mysterious and dangerous, didn't it? John certainly thought so!

He gave Sherlock a fierce look and squeezed his hand again, his small fingers curling tightly around Sherlock's own. His own accent wasn't quite as good as Sherlock's was, but then he supposed, that was why he made a better first-mate than a captain. He spoke as he began to pull Sherlock forward again, towards the fountain. He crawled up the stony ledge and clumsily helped Sherlock do the same. He waved his hand out at the park, pretending he could actually see the ocean before looking at Sherlock.

"Legend says your trusty eye patches have telescopes in them! What d'you see out there on the horizon, Captain?"

 

_Mermaid's_ Wrath? What was so wrathful about a mermaid? Ha! Sherlock had read about them in his storybooks; he knew that, apparently, they could sing songs that would lure sailors to their death--siren songs, they were called. Sherlock had always thought they were very pretty, and he found it strange to think that they were actually mean and would eat humans.

Then again, everyone needed to eat. Even him, although he didn't like doing it.

Sherlock kept a tight hold on John's hands when he was pulled up onto the ledge. He hadn't anticipated that there would be any climbing during their play, but then, they _were_ on a pirate ship. Pirate ships had decks and masts; climbing was an essential part of being on one.

Putting his hand right over his eyes, as if to shield them from the sun once more, Sherlock hummed and looked forward, turning his head slowly as if he were surveying the ocean from all angles.

"There be an island to the west of us," he said, pointing to the left (assuming he and John were facing north; he couldn't tell, as he couldn't see where the sun was or what side of the trees the moss was growing on in the park). "And to the east? Shiver me timbers, it's water! Lots and lots of water, matey. Aye, if it's supplies we be needing, let's turn this ship to port!"

Smirking, Sherlock reached out and felt John's arm, moving his hand up his shoulder so he could orient himself, and then he lifted his hand and put it on top of John's head, turning it to the left. He had started to say 'That's this way', because he knew that the last time they had met, John hadn't known anything about east (so Sherlock assumed he didn't know anything about west, either), but he found that the words wouldn't come.

They wouldn't come because he was startled! sherlock had felt the scratchy material of a cap, he assumed, which was fine. It didn't surprise him a bit; it was rather chilly out, after all. No, what had surprised him was that there was something beneath John's cap! Two things, actually, and they had _moved_!

"What's on your head?" he asked, after having jerked his hand away, just out of surprise. He knew it wasn't the cookies he had given John earlier; it didn't feel like them (and who put cookies in their hat, anyway?)...it didn't feel like anything Sherlock had ever felt before, come to think of it, so it was only natural that he be curious.

 

John hadn't expected Sherlock to touch the top of his head like he did, so he hadn't even had the chance to stop him from doing so. He was too busy looking out at their pretend ocean to notice the hand that had grappled its way to set on top of his head, and his ears twitched immediately when it did.

He looked sideways at Sherlock with slightly wide eyes and his eyes shot around quickly, just to make sure his mum hadn't somehow caught wind of it from where she was.

"It's--It's my hat, silly," John covered up as best as he could, taking a small step to the side and reaching both of his hands up to his head, as if adjusting his cap. "It's cold out here after all."

John never knew why  he couldn't just... not wear anything. Yes, it was... weird, and yes it was different, but that didn't mean bad, did it? John didn't think so. And he would give anything not to have to clip down his ears painfully every day or shove his tail into his trousers, only to be let out in the privacy of his own home.

He hated it.

But even so, he had been under strict order not to tell anyone, and he was (unfortunately)...obedient.

So, quickly, he reached for Sherlock's hand again. He jumped down from the ledge before looking up at where Sherlock was still standing just a foot or so above him.

"Well come on, then! We're not going to find anything with you doodling about up there, cap'in!"

 


	6. Chapter 6

Something about John's answer made Sherlock suspicious. The way he stuttered, the way he suddenly seemed flustered...Sherlock didn't think that what he had felt was really John's hat, but what could it have been, then?

Maybe it was a present for him. It was nearly Christmas, after all. Shoot! Sherlock knew right away that he would have to get John something, too. He'd brought him biscuits that his mother had made, but that wasn't a real present. He needed something that he'd bought just for John, something that he had picked out himself.

And for that, he would have to go to the store.

As John took his hand again, Sherlock found himself thinking less and less about their game and more about what he could get John. He hardly even knew him. Maybe something he could use when playing hunter?

Oh! A _wolf_ costume! That would be the perfect present for John. Sherlock liked having a costume on when he played pirates, so a wolf costume would help John when he played...wolf. Sherlock still didn't understand why John played that, but it didn't matter. He would find the best wolf costume that he could (going by someone else's description of them, as he couldn't see himself) and gift it to the other boy.

Now that _that_ was out of the way, Sherlock's attention returned to the game at hand. He laughed when he heard John say 'doodling' and he shook his head.

"It's _dawdling_ , John. Not doodling."

He liked that word, though. Maybe he would use it instead.

Sherlock pulled on John's hand and counted out his steps, one, two, three, four, until he got to forty. He turned left and moved slowly forward, until his foot tapped against the wooden outline of the sandbox. He knelt down in the cold sand and immediately started to dig a hole with his hands.

"We need to dig so we can bury the treasure," he instructed his first mate. "We need to dig deep. We have more treasure than any other pirates on the seven seas. They'll be after it. I want it to be here when I come back. Come on, help me."

 

John was more than glad that Sherlock hadn't made a big fuss over his cap story; the less questions, he decided, the better.

His mum had taken to looking at her cell phone, rather than on John and Sherlock, and he was glad for it, because it meant he could be a little freer in the way he was playing and behaving.

When they arrived at the sandbox, John immediately dropped to his knees and let his fingers sink into the (slightly cold) sand. It wasn't nearly as enjoyable as it was in the summer, when it was so warm it was nearly hot and he could dig himself into a shallow sand grave and lay out in the sun. There was something terribly comforting about that feeling.

Even so, he began to dig into it with Sherlock, hard and fast. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and he could see little puffs of his breath when he breathed out hard, but he was having so much fun he didn't even care.

...Or notice that he was digging with a little more... _vigor_ than was probably strictly necessary.

"Here, cap'in," John said, reaching into his pocket. In it, he had a square, golden candy wrapper from earlier on in the day, (not that Sherlock would be able to see it) and he took Sherlock's hand to set it in his palm. "The most valuable treasure of them all. Quickly, bury it before the crew sees. Not even they can be trusted with it!"

 

Sherlock certainly noticed that John was digging quickly and intensely beside him. He thought it was a bit odd, but quickly chalked it up to the excitement that came along with playing their game. That made sense, didn't it?

Even if it didn't, Sherlock was willing to let it slide. He liked playing with John _that_ much.

Sherlock looked down at his hand when it was grasped. He felt the crinkly material in between his fingers, immediately recognising it as a candy wrapper or some other piece of rubbish, and he quickly did as John instructed and buried it deep in the sand.

He had just looked up to address John, question his loyalty to his Captain, when he heard his mother's footsteps approaching.

"Sherlock, we need to be heading home," she told him. "I've got to start dinner, and your brother needs to talk to your father and me about something."

Immediately, Sherlock's heart sank. He looked in John's direction, frowning, and then up to his mother. He didn't want to leave. He would rather stay in the park and try to find his own way back home (which, he was sure, would be quite impossible) than leave John so soon.

Or ever.

"Can John come over for dinner? And to sleep over?"

There! He had asked his mother, right in front of John, for her permission to let him come over. Sherlock couldn't see her face, but he imagined his mother was thinking over his request.

Wilma turned around and met Mrs. Watson's gaze. "He'll have to ask his mother," she said. "If she says it's all right, he can." She didn't think it would happen; after all, their sons had only _just_ met, and even though they had sat near one another, the two women hadn't spoken a word to each other.

"If not, maybe you two can see each other in the park again."

 

When Sherlock said the words 'sleep over', John's eyes went as wide as they could go.

He'd never had a sleepover before, but of course he knew what it meant, and he had always wanted to have one. Having one with Sherlock made it ten times better.

However... there was his mum to consider. And she would be considering his father. No doubt thinking of all the things he would say, the worries they would both have, the worst-possible scenarios that could happen. John could see it already and he felt himself begin to deflate...just so.

"Please," he found himself asking in soft voice, looking up at his mum. She just looked down at him with a look John couldn't quite distinguish. It wasn't quite pity, but it was something akin to sadness, and when she saw John squeeze Sherlock's hand just a little bit tighter, she sighed before looking at Mrs. Holmes.

"Well obviously we didn't bring any toiletries for him... And I would need your phone number, of course, but... if it's alright with you, it's...well, it's alright with me."

John could hardly believe it. His face split into a wide grin, lit up like all the fairy lights that were lining the streetlamps.

"Really?" he asked a little breathlessly, to which she only smiled softly back at him and nodded.

John let go of Sherlock's hand and immediately wrapped his arms around his mum's middle, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent before looking up her coat at him.

"Thanks, mum."

She turned then, and reached into her purse to take out her mobile so she could put down Sherlock's mum in her contacts.

"He's... he's a good boy," she told Wilma, softly, as though she were trying to...reassure her of something else entirely. "He's not too loud, he's respectful... "

John knew what that meant, though. He was only nine, but he thought he was rather intuitive enough.

 

Sherlock had to admit, he, too, was surprised that John's mother had agreed to letting them spend time together.

Pleasantly surprised.

Sherlock didn't think his own mother would have allowed him to spend the night with someone they barely knew, but she had been more protective of him ever since he had lost his sight. On one hand, Sherlock wished she wasn't, so that he could grow to be more independent and be forced to figure things out on his own...but on the other hand, he'd only been lost one time so far, and it was the scariest thing to happen to him in his life.

So far.

Wilma gave Mrs. Watson her number, mobile and home, and smiled at the other woman. She had no doubts that John was a good boy. The very fact that Sherlock had taken a shine to him had to mean something, didn't it? Sherlock didn't particularly like anyone. Then again, the only people he had been around, really, were his own family, and he had nothing in common with his cousins. He and Mycroft didn't get along; his aunts and uncles and grandparents were distant, his mother and father were...well. No child really wanted to spend an extended amount of time with their parents, did they?

After getting Mrs. Watson's number in her phone, Wilma put her hands on both John and Sherlock's backs and started to guide them towards her car. She didn't feel apprehensive, as such, but it was her first time ever hosting another child at her home, one that wasn't related to her. Still, she was smart. She knew how to entertain.

Sherlock kept hold of John's hand as they walked. He was thinking about all the things they could do once they were at his house. John could read the instructions of the scent-maker; he could read Sherlock books, they could play in the backyard, they could tell each other scary stories while lying in bed.

It would be wonderful.

"Watch your step, Sherlock," his mother warned when they neared the car. Sherlock took heed and felt with his cane--which John had graciously steered him back to in order to retrieve--to find the dip in the ground from the kerb. He climbed into the backseat of the car and buckled his seatbelt, then felt for John's hand again.

"You can wear my pyjamas. I have some that are big. Mycroft's old ones."

 

Mycroft. That name came up a few times before, from Sherlock, but John couldn't figure out if he had ever heard the name before. Like 'Sherlock' it was certainly...different.

But that's okay. John didn't mind different.

"Who's Mycroft?" John asked Sherlock as the car roared into life and lurched from the curb and into London traffic. "I don't think I'll ever meet another Sherlock or Mycroft in my entire life."

He squirmed a little in his seat, (always a bit uncomfortable sitting on his tailbone--literally--) before folding his hands into his lap. He was, surprisingly, okay with being with people he didn't know all that well. He stayed with his mum and dad and Harry a good portion of the time, and it wasn't as though he was going off with friends often or anything. But rather than being scared, John was excited. He wasn't even all that sad to see his mum going off without him.

"What's your room look like?" John wanted to know. "And your house? Do you do experiments in your room? And what sorts of experiments do you do? I never asked that."

 

"Brother," Sherlock answered, his voice a mere grumble as he thought about the older boy who was waiting at home. “ _My_ brother. He's mean. He's fat, and spoiled, and thinks he's--"

"Sherlock," Wilma scolded from the driver's seat, glancing back at her son in the rearview mirror. "If you don't have anything nice to say..."

Sherlock knew how the expression ended. 'Then don't say anything at all.' He only rolled his blank eyes and sighed. If he only ever said things that were nice, he wouldn't ever talk! It wasn't that he /tried/ to be mean, as such. It just sort of...happened.

Sherlock turned to look at John, picturing his home in his head. "It's big," he answered. "And fancy. My parents like expensive things. Mother especially."

" _Sherlock_."

"Well you _do_ ," Sherlock defended himself. He continued, "My room is pretty big, but Mycroft's is bigger. I have book cases in my room, and a big desk. I do my experiments on it, and I read when sitting there. At least, I used to. I have a big window that I can look out of. Could. I could see Mother's flowers, and there were always a lot of bees that flew around them. I liked to watch."

Sherlock was pleased that John was asking him about his experiments. It made him feel proud, and smart, that he was able to talk to someone about them--someone who actually wanted to know. He had the feeling that his parents and Mycroft, especially, got tired of hearing about the things he was researching.

"I do all sorts of experiments. I had a caterpillar that I kept until it became a butterfly. I watched it hatch from its cocoon. I want to do the same with a moth, but I won't be able to watch now. Maybe you could watch for me and tell me what's happening? I'm sure it'll be just the same as a butterfly."

Having John with him, Sherlock realised, would help him to do all sorts of things he couldn't do if he was on his own. John could be not only his first mate, but also his assistant when it came to experiments--something Sherlock had always secretly wanted.

 

John nodded when Sherlock explained who 'Mycroft' was. He didn't know anything about having a brother, but he certainly knew what it was like having an annoying sibling. Harry was...well, they got on okay sometimes, but they also didn't at all. She was two years older than he was and she took her role of 'older sister' seriously. She didn't spend too much time at home, though, choosing instead to stay the nights with her friends.

John didn't blame her. He had only been in the car so far, but he already knew he was going to love being able to sleep over at someone's house.

"I've never seen a moth hatch before," John said, thoughtfully. "I've never seen a butterfly hatch up close, either. We'll have to get some."

Being kids, it was so easy for them to say things, to do things, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Someday it wouldn't be quite so easy, but for now, it was.

The car continued to drive and John looked out the window often to get a look at all the sights. He couldn't help but be excited, as he hadn't really ever seen much of this part of London, where the houses were getting bigger and fancier the longer they drove.

A thought struck John, then, and while he wasn't sure he should ask, a part of him really, really did want to, for more than one reason.

"What made you... go blind?" he asked him. "Do you think someday you'll be able to see again?"

 

Sherlock wasn't the least bit surprised that John had never seen a moth hatch, but he still wished that his new friend had. It would give them something to talk about. Although, it would be just as fun for them to catch another caterpillar when it got warmer, and then they could watch that one make a cocoon together.

Well. John could watch it. Sherlock would sit there and simply stare, pretend as if he were able to see what was going on.

"It was a genetic thing," Sherlock answered, shrugging. "My eyes were weak. I used to wear glasses, but I could see. Then they just stopped working. The doctor said there wasn't anything he could do about it." The boy frowned. "I told him that he could get me new eyes from somebody and attach them, but he said eyes don't work that way. I don't see why not. If they're in the sockets and connected to the brain, why wouldn't they work?"

It seemed so _simple_ to Sherlock, and he was unwilling to even entertain the possibility that an adult knew better than he did, because adults--everyone, but sometimes adults in particular--were stupid.

There wasn't much hope that Sherlock would ever be able to see that again, but he didn't say that. Somehow, he seemed to think that, by not saying it, it would make it not-true, and that maybe he would be able to see again.

Even though, deep down, he knew that he wouldn't.

Sherlock recognised the sound of the car pulling up onto their paved driveway. It was smooth and felt different from the bumpy road. Once the car had stopped, Sherlock opened the car door and crawled out, his cane in front of him as he went towards the front door. The house was large and tall, with stone-encrusted walls and dark cherry doors, windowsills, and shutters. After counting his way up the five steps Sherlock opened the door and stepped out of his shoes.

"My room is that way," he said, pointing towards the left. He felt for John's hand and then slowly walked down the entryway, turning left when his cane stopped bouncing against the wall, and he led the way down to the third room, passing his mother's study and Mycroft's bedroom on the way.

Sherlock's room was big, with a periodic table of the elements printed out and hung up on his wall. He had a (fake, of course) skeleton in the corner of his room, a bookshelf with chemistry and biology textbooks written for people five years his senior, his desk, bed, and a beanbag chair to sit on beside his bookshelf.

"The scent-maker is under the bed," he told John. "So is my sword."

 

Sherlock's room was impressive, to say the very least. It was big, as he had said, but it was more what was in it that had John saying, “ _Wow_.”

The big poster of the elements, the skeleton in the corner of the room, (which was definitely a little strange, but fitting, in an odd way) and all the books on the shelf.

More than anything, the room smelt strongly of Sherlock, especially around his bed.

John absently took off his coat and hung it on the back of Sherlock's desk chair, but kept his hat on, out of habit in being the presence of other people.

"This house is so cool," John told him before walking over to where the scent was the strongest. He got down on his knees and look under the bed before pulling out the box that the scent-maker came in, as well as the plastic sword.

"Would you like to do this first? Or would you like to play pirates some more? Or maybe you can tell me another story."

Though, that might be better for when they went to sleep.

He stood back up, then, and walked over to the bookshelf. He didn't understand half of the titles that where on the shelf, and he didn't see any that sounded like stories, but they were all educational.

"The thing you wanted to be before you lost your sight. Was it some sort of scientist or something?"

 

Sherlock could hear the astonishment and awe in John's voice, and it made him smile a little. Of course he had lived in the house every day of his life, and he had never been inside a small one, so he didn't appreciate what he had, just because he had never been without it.

"Let's play with the scent-maker," he decided. "I've been really excited to try that."

He really had. Sherlock was eager to see what sort of scents the machine could make, and if they could even come up with their own scents. Something he had wanted to try for a while was to make his own candle. He knew they offered it at craft stores his mother frequented (although Sherlock thought they were _so_ boring), but she had never let him make one. It was probably because Sherlock had planned to use each and every scent and then determine what scent(s) were the strongest.

It wasn't wasteful. It was _science_.

Sherlock took the scent-maker from John's hands and carried it over to his desk. He opened it up and took it out piece by piece, one beaker at a time, and then the instructions.

"Here, John," he said, holding the paper out behind his shoulder so John could take it from him. "Read those. And yes, I did want to be a scientist. Sort of. I wanted to be a chemist, I think. Or maybe something in forensics. Do you know about forensics? It's like...the chemistry of crime-solving. You test evidence and find out what it is or where it came from, and that helps the police catch criminals."

Sherlock sat down in his chair--not even thinking to offer it to his guest--and looked up at John. "Do you have any idea what you want to be when you grow up?"

 

John held the paper directions in his hand and continued to look around the room as Sherlock spoke. Forensics? No, he didn't know a thing about that. He'd heard the word before, and knew it had something to do with crime, but chemistry and forensics? John didn't really have the first clue. He didn't do a lot of chemistry in his school work. None, really. It was all maths and basic sciences, but all that sounded a bit complicated.

As for the question Sherlock had posed to him, John only shrugged lightly.

"I don't know yet," he said. "I like.... helping people. I don't know what I could do with that, though. I don't think I'll ever do anything with forensics or crime, like you."

He did have a rather emotional bond with people, though, (or at least, he felt like he sometimes was drawn to needing to help them, take care of them) so something like that might be the best thing for him.

That was only if he were thinking logically, of course. John could think of so many cooler sounding things.

He paused, just briefly, before looking at the closed bedroom door, and he slowly pulled his cap off his head. His ears were still clipped down to his head, so it wasn't terribly obvious, but it was warm in the house and sooner or later, someone (besides Sherlock) was bound to ask him why he was wearing it.

Hopefully they kept to themselves, though.

His tail, that was another story; John couldn't do anything about that, and he, on occasion, had to reach behind him and carefully adjust himself when it moved out of place.

Maybe it wouldn't always be like this.

After clearing his throat, he walked over to the bed and crawled up on top, (and he was briefly overcome with the desire to lay his head down on Sherlock's pillow) before holding out the directions in front of him.

"Okay, first it says--take the plug out of the box--that's the big black thing on your left, and it's got the battery on it--and...'place it in slot A'. Slot A?" John furrowed his brows before crawling off the bed again and walking over to where Sherlock sat and standing right next to him.

"I guess slot A is right here?"

 

Sherlock resisted the urge to feel disappointed that John wasn't going to go into the field of forensics. After all, what right did he have to expect John to do something that _he_ thought was interesting? If John didn't like it, he had no reason to study it.

Sherlock thought about things John could do that would allow him to help people. There were a lot of professions that allowed for it, but which would John actually like? Maybe he could be a firefighter, or a social worker. A teacher? That would depend on whether he wanted to teach children or adults, or maybe he wouldn't want to teach at all. A doctor? They were infamous for helping people. Maybe a police officer, or a counselor. There were _many_ possible careers for him to explore.

"Maybe you could help blind people," Sherlock suggested. "You've been doing good at helping me, so you could probably help others, too."

Even though Sherlock brought it up, he didn't want John to help other blind people. Not really. If he was helping other blind people, that meant he wouldn't be able to help _him_. He wanted John all to himself, and it wouldn't be fair for him to have to share the other boy. He'd been dealt enough in his life already; having his only friend taken away from him would be too much.

Reaching out with his left hand, Sherlock felt around until his fingers closed around the plug. He slid it into Slot A and then started to put the individual beakers in the little holes in the plastic. When arranged, they resembled the pipes of an organ.

He wished he could actually see it.

"What kind of scents do we have to choose from?" Sherlock asked, nodding his head towards the powder packets that were still inside the box. "I'll bet they have all the normal ones. Orange, vanilla, cinnamon, the ocean, clean linen, lilac."

Those were scents Sherlock remembered seeing at the candle store when he went with his mother. They seemed to be the most popular, so he assumed they would be in the kit, too.

Sherlock smirked. "I hope they have bad smells, too. What's the worst thing you've ever smelled? I found a dead skunk once. It smelled awful. I could smell it from fifty feet away."

 

John returned Sherlock's smirk and lifted an eyebrow when the other boy told him the worst thing he had ever smelt was a dead skunk. John had smelt plenty of those in his time, especially where they lived. It wasn't what John would ever say was pleasant, but to him, it smelt more... natural, he supposed, than anything else.

Not that he would say that, of course.

"Have you ever smelled a--a duran? A durien? Something like that, anyway, I can't remember the name. It's like a fruit or something, mum made it one time and it was awful. Like rotting food stuck in a...sweaty sock or something. Gross! She said that in some countries you can't even eat it in public because it's smells so bad. Don't know why she thought it was okay to bring it into the house, though."

John shrugged and looked back down at the directions in his hand.

"Okay, now we need to fill this tube with water," he said, picking up the little beaker in his hand and holding it out for Sherlock. He tapped the end against his fingers so he knew he was holding it out for him. "And then... we plug it in, put it on the hot plate and wait for it to boil before we start adding in the powders."

Of course, like Sherlock had guessed, all the little petri dishes were labeled with things like cinnamon, vanilla, the ocean, etc... Things that had all smelt before, but when John uncapped one of them to sniff, it was a bland smell of nothing. He supposed it was only after it was added to the hot water did it erupt into the puffs of coloured, scented smokes.

"We could combine them powders," John suggested, picking up the red one that read 'cinnamon' and the purple one labeled 'birthday cake'. "Maybe we'll create our own smells and we can use them somehow. Like one that you can use to know I'm around."

 

Sherlock had never smelled a durien, or a duran, whatever it was called, and he decided that if it smelled as bad as John said it did, he definitely _wanted_ to. He didn't like smelling bad things, per se...he just liked to experience new things, and if that involved smelling them, well, so be it.

Sherlock liked the idea of making their own unique smells so they could recognise each other. Even though he was normal, John was certainly smart, Sherlock decided. He accepted the tube from John and then, with his cane in his hand, he tapped it against the ground, walking towards his bedroom. The bathroom was right across the hall, so Sherlock filled up the little tube and then went back into his room, shutting the door behind him. Mycroft would be home soon, and Sherlock didn't want to even have to hear him.

He held it out for John to take, so he could put it over the hot plate, and then smelled a few of the little dishes, determining what each one was. Most of them were recognisable, but there were a few that made Sherlock's nose crinkle and his mind puzzle. He didn't know John very well, but he would still come up with something that suited him. Maybe some sort of pirate-inspired scent, like ocean and coconut? Ocean and pineapple? Coconut and orange?

Well. He didn't have to come up with one right now.

"Have you ever been to any other countries?" Sherlock asked, holding the petri dishes out for John to smell after he had held them up to his own nose. "My family goes to France sometime, and I've been to Germany, and to the United States. We've been to Ireland, too. Oh, and Scotland, but I guess that's not really a different country. We're going to France again this spring. Maybe you can come with us."

Sherlock could already picture it. It would be so fun to go to Paris with John, rather than being there with nobody but Mycroft and his parent to keep him company. John was his own age, he was playful, he liked pirates. What wasn't to like about him?

 

John was standing beside Sherlock, taking the little dishes as they were handed off to him. It seemed so natural, the way he inserted himself right at Sherlock's side, the way it just felt right to be directly beside him.

John didn't know why that was, necessarily.

"I've never been out of the country," John responded with a shake of his head. "I want to go somewhere warm. Like a beach or something. On telly they always make it look so fun."

He liked the way the kids were always shown running and laughing, the hot sun, the vast, blue ocean, the hot sand. John may have never experienced it before, but he had played in a pool before, and he'd been in the sandbox enough times in his life to know what it felt like under the summer sun.

Maybe that's where he would go, someday. Somewhere, far away, with lots and lots of sand.

After placing the beaker of water on the hot plate, he went back to looking around Sherlock's room, and his gaze settled on the skeleton in the corner.

"What do you have that for?" he asked Sherlock. "Are you learning the bones or something?"

 

Sherlock had been to the beach before, and John was right--it _was_ fun. He had most enjoyed looking in the tide pools at all the little creatures that were swimming around inside them, or even the ones that were still, like the starfish and anemones and crabs.

Sherlock switched the hot plate on without much trouble, and then he held his fingers over the surface to make sure it was heating up. In only a few seconds, he felt warmth begin to come from it, soon heating the bottom of the tube suspended above it.

"I am," Sherlock answered, knowing without looking, or being able to see at all, of course, that John was talking about the skeleton in the corner of his room. "I've got most of them memorised, I think, but sometimes the ribs give me trouble. I just get them mixed up. I'll know them in a few days, I'm sure."

Sherlock had asked for that skeleton two Christmases ago. His parents hadn't seemed to want to get it for him, probably thinking that he was different enough as it was, but it was all he asked for, so they caved in and bought it for him. It was detailed, but not so much so that they'd had to spend much money on it. Mycroft had rolled his eyes then, and whenever he entered Sherlock's room and caught sight of it now he did the same.

"I was going to get another one with muscles, so I could learn those, too," Sherlock explained. He shrugged. "I still might. It would be harder since I can't see them, though."

There were so many things Sherlock had planned to do with his life. He didn't necessarily know what they all were, yet, but he was going to do _something_. Now, though, he felt like he was severely limited. What could he do with himself without being able to see?

Sherlock slowly wet his lips. He turned and looked up at John, his brow furrowed beneath the top of his sunglasses.

"Does it bother you that I can't see? Maybe even just a little?"

 

John looked back over at Sherlock, and for a moment, was genuinely surprised by his question.

Well. Sort of.

Because John hadn't barely even thought about it. Yes, he noticed it, and yes, it did influence a few things, but in the short time they had known each other, John felt like it hadn't had any /real hindrance.

He paused as he thought about how the best way to answer, touching his fingers to the hand of the skeleton and running them up and down the smooth plastic.

"I wish you could see _me_ ," he eventually decided on. "I would like that, to see you see me, but you're pretty much the smartest person I've ever met--well, maybe teachers or something--so I don't think it will matter."

He was still young, so he couldn't quite get across just what he was trying to say, but he felt like it sounded right.

"I don't think you need to see to play or learn stuff. And everything else, I can help you with!"

Sherlock's question did make _John_ wonder, though. Would Sherlock mind, even just a little, about _him_? In his youth, John liked to think the best of people, but there was a bit of maturity that he kept inside, that he was much more aware of people and emotions than he let on. He knew that adults saw things differently than people his own age did, and that even if Sherlock didn't mind now, maybe someday, years from now, he would change.

Maybe he felt that way about John, too.

"I promise it won't make me not want to be your friend, though. _Promise_."

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock wished that he could see John, too. He wanted to know what he looked like. What colour was his hair? How long was it? Was he white? Gosh! Sherlock didn't even know what race his only friend was. It didn’t matter, of course; Sherlock would still enjoy him regardless of his race or the colour of his hair or whether he was skinny or fat or normal-looking or ugly, but he was a curious boy and he just wanted to know.

Sherlock smiled as John told him he wouldn't stop wanting to be his friend just because he couldn't see. And then, he sealed it with a promise. It was enough to make Sherlock feel happy, which wasn't something that came naturally to him. He was happy enough when he got a new book or toy, but it didn't last for long because he got bored with it so quickly. He didn't think that would be the case with John.

"Let me touch you," Sherlock told his new friend. "If I can touch you, it'll help me know what you look like."

That wasn't an odd request, was it? Sherlock didn't think so...but then again, if someone had asked _him_ if they could touch _him_ , he would have said no. John holding his hand was okay, but he didn't know how he would feel about John touching his face and head and shoulders.

"What colour is your hair? And your skin? I will be able to figure out the rest just by touching you. Oh, but also your eyes, I need to know the colour of them as well."

There! Sherlock was perfectly in his right, making such a request. John wouldn't mind, surely. No, John would probably be happy to go along with it. After all, he had even said that he wished Sherlock was able to see him. This was as close as they were going to get.

 

John hesitated when Sherlock asked to touch him. Of course he knew why he wanted to, but John had one _very_ good reason for not wanting him to.

Well. Two reasons, and they were both within inches from his face.

But it would be weird not to let him do it, because then Sherlock would probably want to know why and he may get his feelings hurt or feel awkward or something. And John didn't want that.

He would just have to be careful. Not let his hands wander too much.

He wet his lips before nodding and saying, "Sure, alright."

He walked over to stand in front of Sherlock and waited for the other boy to turn towards him before he began talking.

"Let's see... I'm white. And I have blond hair, like both my mum and dad. It's sort of long right now though because I haven't had a haircut in a while. Sometimes it gets in my eyes."

He held his breath just so when Sherlock reached out and began to place his hands on the sides of his face before he continued.

"I have blue eyes, but from far away everyone always thinks they're brown because they're dark blue. I like the colour, though. Dark blue is my favorite colour."

John didn't know how to describe the shape of his lips or nose or facial structure or anything like that, but Sherlock was feeling, so close enough. He never really thought much about his own appearance, though; there were far better things to do.

"I don't think I'm fat or skinny, I'm pretty average, but I do love to eat. And I'm average height I think, but I'll be happy when I have my growth spurt. I hope I'm tall."

 

Sherlock listened carefully as John described himself. Blond hair. Dark blue eyes. Not skinny or fat--he made note if it.

"I hope I'm tall, too," Sherlock said, touching his fingers to John's nose and then his lips. It really was strange to be doing this, but he didn't mind. It was worth it to have some idea of what John looked like.

Sherlock's hands traveled to the side of John's face to feel the size of his ears and see if they stuck out or were closer to his head. When he didn't _find_ any ears, his brow furrowed.

That wasn't right.

Quickly, his hands moved higher up on John's head, almost frantically, as he was immediately concerned for the other boy, and it was only when he felt the _furry_ flaps attached to John's head that he jerked his hands away, gasping and stepping back.

"John! What's wrong with your ears?!"

Sherlock wasn't normally so... _expressive_ , but he couldn't help it this time. He was _scared_.

 

Crap!

John yanked back quickly, one foot coming behind him and his hands immediately darting to his head. He hadn't even thought about that, not having regular human ears on the side of his head. How had that slipped his mind!? He'd been so preoccupied with keeping Sherlock’s attention from his animal side that he forgot the _lack_ of human ones.

"Nothing!" he said immediately, hands resting on his soft, furry ears. "Nothing, it's--it's nothing."

He was scrambling to think of what to say--'it's a condition, it's for play, it's fake'--but Sherlock had recognized he hadn't had any human ears anyway!

"It's...it's nothing," he kept saying, feeling his face turn a little pink, but he could tell that it was coming across in his voice just how unsure he suddenly was.

"I was--I was born with...well, sort of born like this. I think. It's been as long as I can remember, so maybe not, but--"

He cleared his throat again and looked around. Sherlock looked horrified, and John's face was growing hot.

"The water is boiling."

 

Sherlock didn't care about the scent-maker.

Well, he _did_ , but he was far more interested in this new development. To say that he was surprised or stunned wasn't enough; no, Sherlock Holmes was definitely shocked. He had never met anyone who didn't have ears, but John was obviously capable of hearing. If they hadn't talked on the phone, then maybe Sherlock could have believed that John had been reading his lips the entire time...but no, even that was impossible.

Sherlock could tell that John was uncomfortable. He did suddenly feel a bit...guilty. After all, John hadn't had any sort of overreaction to his being blind. Reacting to his...ears...well, it was just a mistake. Something Sherlock hadn't meant to do.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled. "I probably shouldn't have reacted...like that. I was just surprised. I'll bet you're used to that."

Unless John kept his strange ears a secret? That was always a possibility.

After clearing his throat, Sherlock wet his lips. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and then took a step closer to the other boy.

"Can I maybe--touch them again? I promise I won't make fun of you. I'm just really curious. I like learning about new things. Please? I'll be gentle."

 

John's eyes darted back and forth, like he were a literal caged animal, caught between the bed and (ironically) Sherlock's gaze, which if he could see, John imagined would be trained on him hard.

He wet his lips again and his hands nervously wrung together.

Sherlock didn't seem like he was lying. He didn't think he would make fun of him, like he said, but... John hadn't ever shown anyone but his parents.

"Don't...don't tell anyone," John told him. "If people know, my mum and dad might not let me come back over anymore."

He stepped back forward and glanced at the door again before reaching up to his head to take out the pins that kept them in place.

It did feel good, he had to admit; the strain was immediately taken off and his ears shot right up, raised towards the ceiling and slightly flapped at the ends.

He almost had to fight from signing in relief, but he did, just a little.

His heart was racing and he had to keep from letting it show in his breathing, but Sherlock hadn't run away screaming.

"They're--they're tan coloured," he said tentatively. "A little bit lighter than my hair."

 

Sherlock already liked John, but he had to admit that the boy was getting more and more interesting just by being different.

It made Sherlock feel like he was able to relate to John on a new level. He had his deformity that came from being blind, and John had his hairy, misshapen ears.

Sherlock didn't want them, but he knew he would prefer to have strange ears over being blind any day of the week.

Sherlock put his hands on the sides of John's face again and slid them up, past the ear-less sides of his head, and to the top. He gasped softy when he felt the strange appendages. They were soft and thin...floppy, really.

"They're like dog's ears," Sherlock decided. That was the most accurate comparison he could come up with. "How in the world...you can't possibly have been born with these...it's just...it's _impossible_."

Wasn't it? It was as far as he knew.

Smirking, Sherlock scratched John's ears. And behind them.

"Does that feel good?"

 

John wasn't sure if he had been born like this, either, but his parents...hadn't been the most forthcoming with him about just what it was that all of it came from.

Of course, he knew _what_ he was, in a sense. He wasn't completely human, but was something...more. Mixed, maybe.

He was just glad that Sherlock hasn't found it too weird. He didn't seem to mind at all, actually.

John began to relax, just a little bit more, and when Sherlock smirked and began to scratch behind them, He very nearly let out a whine.

It was only because of how long they had been pinned down and how good it felt, not only to have them scratched, but the way Sherlock’s fingers seemed to massage the strained muscles in them.

"Yeah," he said, a little breathlessly. His head tipped forward and his shoulders relaxed. The tail, tucked under his trousers, threatened to begin moving but John refrained.

"They...they _are_ dog ears," he told Sherlock. "That's what they look like. I don't know why I'm like this. I've asked, but...I don't get many answers. Mum and Dad don't like talking about it."

 

They _were_ dog ears?

No. No, that was impossible. There was just no way that they could actually be dog ears...was there?

Was it some sort of DNA splicing? It would have to be, wouldn't it? Animals and humans didn't procreate, and besides, John had a human mother and father.

Sherlock wanted answers, but it didn't seem like John wasn't able to give them. Sherlock didn't blame him for that, per se, but he did wish that things were different. He wanted to know how John had got dog ears and if he could, maybe, get new eyes.

Cat eyes, maybe. Then he would be able to see in the _dark_.

Sherlock kept his fingers moving over John's ears. They dug into the soft cartilage where his ears met his scalp. All the while, Sherlock was thinking.

"So this is why you're so good at smelling things?" he ventured. Maybe there was more that was canine to John than just his ears. "And why you dug so fast in the sandbox...it makes perfect sense, now!" He smiled brightly. "I'm not missing anything, am I? Mycroft says I _always_ miss something."

 

John found himself growing more and more hopeful with every second. Sherlock was smiling; more than smiling, he seemed excited, and he was asking John questions rather than calling him weird or a freak or anything else that John's parents had warned him might happen if he ever let anyone know about him.

"Yes, exactly," he confirmed with a nod of his head. "I do things, and I can't always help it, but they say it's because I have... 'canine DNA'. I'm not... I'm not an animal, though, I still do normal human things," he was quick to add. "I still like to play, and eat snacks, and I do everything else other boys do. It's just... sometimes I can't always say why I want to do some of the things I do."

He put his hand on his chest, as if indicating his very soul, (which he only imagined to look like a puff of smoke or a ghost or something). "It's just an inside feeling... I think they called it instincts."

He dropped his hand again and smiled, fighting the urge to lean his head further into Sherlock's hand. It felt so good and it only made his already-quick and intense fondness for the other boy swell even more.

"I have to wear a hat, and I have to keep them pinned down when I'm in public, though. Mum says they'd bring too much negative attention to me."

 

Sherlock didn't know how it was possible for John to have canine DNA. He wanted to know, though, but it would be better for him to just as John's parents, rather than trying to figure it out on his own.

Then again...

John had told him he couldn't tell anybody. Sherlock wanted to. He wanted to talk to his parents and Mycroft about how his new friend was _so cool_ because he was different. There was nothing at all wrong with being different, Sherlock thought. As a matter of fact, it made him like John even more.

Of course, he was only an innocent child, free from any sort of knowledge or experience about bullying. As far as he knew, the way Mycroft treated him was perfectly normal for older siblings.

John had one too. Maybe it was.

"I won't tell anyone," he promised again, pulling his hands away from John's ears and then sitting back down at his desk. He grinned. "I'll just pretend you're my puppy, okay?"

Sherlock held out a few of the Petri dishes, coconut, lime, and ocean.

"These smell good together. What could we call it?"

 

John couldn't stop smiling at Sherlock, even if the boy couldn't tell that he was. He was almost tempted to hug him, but...decided against that. He had no reservations about hugging people, but he didn't want to surprise him.

Even if he probably was entitled to a hug. Sherlock had been touching him, after all.

But they were moving on to other things, and John took the Petri dishes and lifted them up to his nose to smell briefly. It was a nice smell; like the ocean, or a beach, (which John only knew because he had smelt his mother's lotion before, 'coconut oil'.) It made John think of the summer; of the hot sun and a fresh breeze.

John liked it very much.

"I don't know," he said, before taking a small pinch of each between his fingers and holding it over the boiling water. He sprinkled it into the tube and the water immediately began to bubble and erupt in a puff of lime green smoke. Immediately whisks of green began to circle them, and John smiled wider as the smell circulated the room.

"Ocean's breath?" he offered with w shrug. "Or we could name it after our ship."

 

Sherlock nodded and his grin widened. "Mermaid's breath," he decided. That seemed to be the best of both.

It really was a good smell. It helped Sherlock to imagine that he was out at sea, facing terrible foes with his trusty first mate at his side. Of course, given his inability to see, John would have to instruct him every step of the way. It was a small price to pay in order to be a pirate.

 The more he thought about being a pirate, the more Sherlock decided that he wanted to go out and explore. With John being there with him, it would be even more fun than normal.

"Put your ears back," he instructed. He stood up and put his coat back on, then his scarf.

"Let's go outside. We can go for a walk in the woods."

It was raining lightly--Sherlock could hear it on the roof--so he walked over to his closet and got his umbrella out from the back of it.

"Maybe we can make a pirate ship in the woods. There's lots of branches and sticks."

The forest behind the house was large, and Sherlock always enjoyed looking in it, going a little bit deeper each time. He hadn't been able to explore it since going blind, but it was different now that he had John.

 

John enjoyed being outside, so he had no qualms about doing so now, even if it was raining a bit. But he was used to that, too. It was always rainy in England.

He put his coat back on, but he didn't have a scarf like Sherlock did; just the fuzzy part of his hood that sometimes kept his neck warm. He had some gloves in his pocket, though, so he pulled those on after carefully securing his ears in place. He finished his wardrobe by placing his hat back on his head.

"Will your mum be okay with letting us?" he wanted to know. He glanced out Sherlock’s window, which because was in the back of the house faced the woods in question, before following him to the door. "Maybe we can find a secret spot. Have you ever been inside a tree house? I've always wanted to have one."

He loved the idea of it; a secluded, spacious little room up in a high tree that he could play in, sleep in, escape to. He didn't have many places like that at home, and since they lived in a small house, there wasn't much to say for privacy.

Not that John would really worry about that for a few more years, once his teenage years hit.

"Too bad we don't live closer; we could build one in-between our houses and meet there."

 

Truth be told, Sherlock didn't know if his mother would be okay with letting them go out or not. And he wasn't going to ask. He was just going to.

But, just so he could say that he _had_ told her, he got a piece of paper from his desk and scrawled a note onto it, telling whoever read it that he and John had gone to play outside, and left it on his desk.

It ended up looking like a mess of swirled ink more than an actual message, but that wasn't his concern.

"I've been in a treehouse before," Sherlock answered, nodding as he walked closer to John and took his hand. It came naturally now, so much so that he didn't even think about doing it. He just did it. "It was at my cousins' house. I liked it, but I didn't like that I had to play with them in order to get to use it. I wanted to just stay out there the whole time, but my parents made me go wherever my cousins wanted to go. I didn't like that."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he thought about his extended family. His mean Aunt Margaret, his weird Uncle Rudy, and his stupid cousins Mark, Angela, and Marie. He didn't like any of them, and whenever his parents told him they were going to visit or that they were coming to visit, Sherlock felt a heavy ball of dread form right in the pit of his stomach.

It didn't leave until they had.

"Come on," Sherlock said, tugging on John's hand. He led the way outside (his mother was talking on the phone in her bedroom, he heard) and then to the woods. "It would be much better if we lived closer to each other. You could sneak over to visit me at night. You could throw rocks at my window and then I would open it and put a sheet down so you could climb up."

Sherlock had seen it in films before. It was an ingenious idea.

"Would you do that?"

 

John followed Sherlock, as he had been doing, out of the house and into the back yard which took them out to the woods a little ways away. Sherlock had such a big house and such a big yard that John wished he never had to leave at all; of course, Sherlock's idea, of him coming and tossing rocks at his window to get inside and climbing up a sheet...now that sounded fun. A little dangerous and scary, but secretive and exciting, like they were being rebellious. John could stay for a while--maybe even spend the night--before sneaking out early in the morning or something.

The only problem was how John could get there. They didn't necessarily live close; John didn't even really know directions yet, or street names or anything like that. And for a nine year old to come that far would be dangerous.

Somehow, danger never seemed to put John off.

"I would do that," John readily agreed. "I don't know how, yet, but I'll find a way!"

Even if it wasn’t until they were older, John would.

When they neared the entrance to the woods, John held on to Sherlock's hand a little tighter to make sure he didn't fall or trip over one of the many branches and logs that covered the earth.

It was still raining, though, and because John was taller, he took the umbrella from Sherlock's free hand and held it instead.

Everything smelled so _good_ to John. This was what he loved best; the smell of the earth, the rain, the tree bark. Things that called to something inside of him that made him think of 'home', or just being comfortable. He liked the city, too, because he liked seeing all the people and the excitement, but he definitely loved this.

"Where to first? It looks huge."

 

Sherlock knew exactly where he wanted to go first. About half a mile into the woods there was a shallow river. It was really more of a creek, but calling it a river made him feel like it was cooler than it really was.

Sherlock had gone often, when he was able to see. He would catch little fish or water bugs and keep them in jars, watching them swim around until they, eventually, would die. Sometimes he put them back in the creek before that happened, but not normally. It wasn't that he meant to kill them, he didn't. He just wanted to study them, and he didn't think about them dying.

He didn't really like to think about that sort of thing.

"There's a little river a couple of minutes away," Sherlock told John. He was picturing exactly where they were standing, so he turned to his left a little and then pulled on John's hand. "It's this way. I know what direction it's in, but things might have changed since I was in here last. Branches and that stuff. You need to be my seeing-eye dog, okay?"

Knowing that John had canine blood in him made the analogy perfect, and literal. Sherlock couldn't help but think about how he had _wanted_ a seeing-eye dog, and now he _had_ one. Sort of. John wouldn't get to live with him all the time, and he probably wouldn't want Sherlock to teach him tricks or feed him kibble on the floor or anything like that, but at least they could still play.

"Tell me if you see any animals. I would see deer sometimes when I came in here, but they always got scared away. I followed their tracks once, but only for a little while. I was with my father and he didn't want to go very deep in the woods because he knew it would be getting dark soon."

Speaking of, between the clouds in the sky and the fact that it was mid-December and nearly five in the evening, it was already beginning to get a bit dim. Sherlock didn't notice, obviously, but he wouldn't have cared about it either way.

"Do you have a forest in your backyard, too? Do you ever go hiking? I like hiking, but only because I can get samples of leaves and bark and plants for my experiments."

 

"I don't have a forest in my backyard," John said with a shake of his head as he stepped over a log. "We just have a flat yard with a fence. It's not very big, but we have a swing set, so sometimes I like to sit on that. It was Harry's, but she's too big for it, now. Well, I'm starting to get too big for it, too."

The sky was getting dark and John blinked up at it before a drop of water managed to hit his cheek. It was coming down a little harder now, too, and John suddenly wondered what would happen if they got lost.

Sherlock couldn't see, so if he got himself all turned around, he wouldn't know the way back, and John only had his nose to lead him, but everything would be muddled by the rain.

At least they would have each other, though. John wasn't too worried.

After a few more steps, John caught a scent that made him look up, then all around.

"There's a raccoon over there," John said, tapping on Sherlock's right shoulder to indicate which direction. The animal was a little ways off, chewing on something or other and when Sherlock's foot snapped on a twig, it froze before scurrying off.

"I want to see you do experiments sometime," John went on, addressing one of Sherlock's points. "I've never done any before. What are your favorites?"

 

Sherlock wasn't even thinking about getting lost. If he'd actually thought about how late in the day it was, and how John wasn't familiar with the woods and how they needed to remain where they could still see how to get out, he wouldn't have led John so deep into the forest.

Maybe.

Instead, Sherlock kept his hand in John's, listening to him talk about his swing set and the raccoon that was beside them. Sherlock had seen raccoons before, but he still wished he could turn his head and see this one as well. What if it was somehow different than all the other raccoons? What if it was bigger or smaller, or did something that he had never seen any other raccoon do?

The chances of that were slim, but even slim chances were too big for Sherlock when it came to something he thought was interesting.

"My experiments aren't all very fun," he told John, just because he wanted the other boy to know in case they did one and John didn't like it. He didn't want John to be disappointed, and he _definitely_ didn't want John to think that he was weird or boring just because of one dud of an experiment.

"Let's see...I separated oil and water once. I made quicksand. I look at microscopic animals with my microscope...at least, I used to. I guess I can't do that one anymore. You can, though. Shoot! We should have brought a bucket with us, so we could get water from the river. That's where the animals live."

It was too late now, though. If Sherlock knew where he was--and he liked to think that he did--the river was about five minutes away. He listened, but he couldn't hear any bubbling water. Not yet.

"Maybe I can teach you about science. Your parents would have to let you come over if I was teaching you, right?"

 

Would John's parents let him come over if Sherlock were teaching him things? That sounded like certain enough logic to John, at least. If Sherlock were teaching him, they would know he was staying inside somewhere, staying out of trouble. That was what they wanted, wasn't it? Him, to stay out of trouble? And most parents would certainly be over the moon about it being because of _learning_.

John liked the idea of science, but he hadn't ever done enough to know for sure whether or not it would be something he would really like. He liked animals, and he liked the scientists on telly and how there always seemed to be beakers burning and weird looking things in tubes.

If that was what science was all about, it seemed good enough for John.

"Maybe," he decided on saying. "They're really protective, I think. It was already hard just letting me come to London to see you. But maybe once they meet you, if I tell them that you're okay with me, they'll be okay, too. I'll tell them first thing tomorrow."

He enjoyed this; he really did. It was strange, just how fast it all had happened, but standing here in the woods with Sherlock, holding his hand tightly, like he was protecting him, like they were real friends, made John feel elated.

"Come on," John said. "I hear the water. I think it's over here."

He led Sherlock in the direction that he could hear the faint, running water, and just ahead through the trees, he could see a small clearing. A little hill, no steeper than a foot or so, led down to the bank, where the ground was flat before dipping slightly into the quick river. It was secluded on both sides with trees and John wondered if Sherlock's family was rich enough to own all of this.

"Next time we'll bring a bucket," he said, watching to make sure Sherlock didn't fall from the dip. "Oh, maybe we could make our own boat! We could actually go floating in the river!"

 

Sherlock had never even thought about making his own boat. Whenever he played pirates, he always just pretended that he was on one, whether it be his bed or the sofa or a large rock. Making a real boat--and actually getting to sail in it--was a far better idea.

It amazed him how smart and creative John was. Was it because he was part puppy, maybe? Dogs weren't known for being creative, but then...John just seemed so much smarter than anyone Sherlock had ever met. Any normal people, anyway.

But then, Sherlock liked him. Maybe he was a bit biased.

As they neared the river, Sherlock was able to hear it, too. He heard it sooner than he would have if he'd been able to see, just because his ears were more attuned to the sounds around him, now that he wasn't getting distracted by the things he could see, too.

"I saw a fox here once," Sherlock told John, walking closer to the edge of the water so he could kneel down and dip his hand into it. It was freezing, but he still took a few moments to feel the cold, smooth rocks beneath the water and the soft moss that grew on them.

"It had a rabbit in its mouth. It was dead. I watched it drink from the river, then eat some of the rabbit, and then it would drink, and eat, and it kept alternating like that. I thought it was funny."

That had been years ago. If Sherlock saw it now, he might be interested for only a few seconds before turning away and looking for something more exciting.

Not that he even _could_ see.

A sudden crack of thunder from above made Sherlock jump. Lightning flashed brightly, lighting up the woods all around them, but he was completely clueless that it had happened. The rain started to come down harder, each drop thumping on the umbrella that John held above them. The sound of it splashing against the water in the river was relaxing to Sherlock. He straightened up and wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

"I like the rain. Did you know there's such a thing as acid rain? I'm not really sure what it is. I think it's radioactive...or something? My brother says it burns peoples' clothes and skin off. He might have just been trying to scare me, though. It didn't work."

Not really, anyway.

 

John had never heard of acid rain before, but it sounded bloody awful. It couldn't have fallen from the sky, could it? And if it did, why, and where did it come from?

John looked around and saw that just a ways away was a large tree with thick, heavy branches that extended out far across the embankment. John tapped Sherlock's shoulder to show him that he was moving, then walked over to the tree and sat down. He positioned the umbrella between them, leaning slightly against the trunk of the tree so they could huddle underneath it without holding it themselves. He drew his knees up to his chest and sighed. It wasn't the most comfortable, having his tail lodged beneath him and sat upon, but it was almost worth it to sit like this. The thunder and lightning worried him a bit, but it was true that he was relaxed.

He just hoped they wouldn't get into any trouble for this.

"Maybe you can get your own mobile phone," John said. "And I could get one, too. Well, my mum tells me I'm not allowed to have one until I'm older, but maybe then we'll be able to talk more and we won't have to worry about waking our parents up at night when we call."

He yawned a bit and stretched his arms over his head before pausing. Well. There was nobody around, and it wasn't like anyone _would_ be.

He took his hat off and unpinned his ears, sighing softly in the relief he felt at getting to feel them perk right up again.

"Maybe someday you'll be so good at experiments and science you'll be able to know what happened to me. Unless my parents tell me first."

 

 

Sitting down beside John was one of the best things Sherlock had ever done in his entire life.

He didn't know why. It was something so simple, and not in the least bit interesting or exciting, but he still liked it all the same. John's body was warm against his own, and Sherlock found himself leaning against the other boy's body just so.

The umbrella was protecting them from the rain, but it did little to stop the cold wind from blazing across them. He crossed his arms over his chest, his head resting lightly against John's shoulder.

That was where it started, but Sherlock soon decided that he shouldn't be resting on John like that. No, no, no, it wasn't proper at all.

"Come here, puppy," he said, moving his arm around John's shoulder so he could pull the other boy closer to him. That was how it was supposed to be, wasn't it? He was the human, and John was...well, he was mostly human, too, but his ears and a few little habits did seem to indicate otherwise. He wouldn't treat John any differently, really, but he was still intrigued.

"I think my parents are going to get me a phone for Christmas, since I can't see anything. That'll help when I go out with them. Last time, when I met you, I wouldn't have been lost if I'd had a phone. I could have called my mother. I told them that they should give me a phone now, but they told me to see if Father Christmas brings me one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was eight, and he was smart. He knew the fat, jolly man wasn't real.

"If we both get phones, we can talk every night. We can even send text messages. My parents told me they make special phones for blind people that read messages out loud, and will type what you tell them to type.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock added, "If your parents don't tell you what happened to you, I promise that I'll try and get to the bottom of it."

 

John had never been called 'puppy' before, and it was certainly...strange. His parents had most certainly never done that, they tried very hard to pretend that part of him didn't exist, so having someone draw such obvious attention to it was certainly a first for John.

Of course, a part of him, however small, wondered how Sherlock saw him now. He was interested in him, but John really hoped he wouldn't suddenly start treating him like an animal just because he had some...mixed DNA, or whatever it was called.

But those thoughts weren't really at the front of his mind because for now, like Sherlock, he was very much enjoying the moment.

Sherlock's body felt so nice next to him, and even if he was a little smaller than John, he still tucked his own head down until his cheek was resting comfortably against Sherlock's head.

"Good," he said, when Sherlock promised him that someday he would get to the bottom of his little...situation. He liked when Sherlock's promised him things, like when he promised he would call him. It made John feel good. Happy, really.

"I don't know what sort of things I would talk about if I could text message," he said absently, staring off in the water, which looked hazy through the rain. "My parents got my sister one, even if she's only a couple of years older than me. She's almost always on it, but she says she's talking to her friends. She types so fast. I don't know what anyone texts about."

Maybe it would be different if John had one of his own, but it seemed so strange to him that someone would spend so much time looking and typing out something when they could just call the person!

Maybe it was because it was private. That must be it.

 

Sherlock felt like he could fall asleep as he sat with John. He was so tired all of a sudden, and he knew it was because he was so content with his friend. It was cold and yet he felt warm; he should have been anxious, not knowing exactly where they were, but he wasn't.

All he was thinking about was how glad he was to have John.

The rain would have washed away their scent by now. Sherlock, of course, wasn't entirely sure what direction they had come from, so even finding his way out was going to be challenging...but he just didn't care right now.

"I don't know what sort of things I would talk about, either," he admitted. He moved his hand up to John's head and scratched both of his ears, alternating between the two. John had seemed to like it before, so it made sense that he would like it again, no?

"I've talked to you more than I talk to anyone else. I talk to my parents and Mycroft, but you're the only friend I have. I'm glad I have you, though. I don't need any other friends. Just you. I think we'll be friends for a long time."

Why wouldn't they be? Sherlock couldn't imagine that anything would ever happen between them to make them not be friends. They were already getting along fine, despite being from very different families and having very different...ailments, as it were. If they could get through those things, surely they could get through anything else, too.

After a few minutes, the wind picked up and started to feel colder and colder. It was still thundering loudly and Sherlock stood up, finally pulling his hand away from John's ears. He had enjoyed scratching them. It made him feel like he had a real dog, even though he knew John wasn't one, and he was glad he wasn't.

"Maybe we should get back. You--You know the way, right?"

 

John was just about to say the same; the rain was picking up harder, the wind stronger and colder. He was beginning to really feel it, then, and it was only a matter of time until it started raining so hard that they wouldn't be able to see at all.

"Of course," John said, though he may have done so a bit prematurely. But it wasn't like it was going to be hard, right? They just had to retrace their steps.

Well. John had to.

He stood up again and brushed some of the dirt off the back of his trousers. Rain began to pelt his face and the top of his head in the time it took him to get the umbrella back over him again, but he took Sherlock's hand and together the two young boys began to head back into the forest.

John lifted his nose in the air so he could try and get a good smell; something familiar that would lead them back towards the Holmes' house, but the rain made everything sort of muddle together for him and hard to focus. But he did his best, focused on just walking straight.

It only took a few minutes of walking though for the rain to really start coming down, as if the sky itself had opened up on them and decided to punish them for going out without permission. Thunder was rumbling all around them and every few minutes there would be a bright flash and a loud crack of thunder. Each time, John jumped a little and squeezed Sherlock's hand on accident.

But, of course, it didn't take long for John to suddenly wonder if he didn't know where they were, after all.

He felt suddenly guilty, because he should have paid more attention; Sherlock trusted him to lead them to and fro, but John suddenly had a sinking feeling that maybe he was taking them the wrong way.

"It was just--it was just straight, right?" John asked Sherlock over the sound of the rain. "I can't smell anything but dirt and mud."

 

John didn't have to say they were lost for Sherlock to know it. He had never felt so stupid in all his life, all eight years of it. How could he ever have thought it was a good idea for them to go out on their own?! His parents probably didn't even know that they were gone.

Sherlock knew they would be mad. They would scold him for going out in the woods without letting them know, especially because he had taken John with him in the rain, in the dark. John would probably get in trouble, too, and then their parents would both forbid them from seeing one another.

All because Sherlock had wanted to show John the woods.

He wet his lips, tasting the rain that had dripped down onto them, and walked quickly to keep up with John. He could feel the slick mud and branches beneath his feet, but nothing would deter him from keeping up with John. He had to, after all. If he and John got separated, Sherlock would have no chance of getting out by himself.

He tried to think about where they were, but by this point they had turned around too many times for him to keep track. He could have just gotten the out of the woods again, had he known what direction they had come to the river from, but by the time he turned around and walked over to sit with John at the tree, he'd lost sight of where they had come from.

Darn it!

"Do you see the tree we were sitting under?" Sherlock asked John, tugging on his hand. "If we can--if we can follow the river...or you can tell me what direction the water is flowing in, maybe...maybe that will help us remember which way we came from?"

It sounded like complete rubbish to Sherlock, even as he spoke, and besides, how would they get back to the tree? It wasn't as if John would even be able to hear the river over the wind, rain, and thunder. Sherlock certainly couldn't.

"We just--I thought we came up to the river by walking straight, yes. But...maybe we turned left? Or was it...was it right?"

He couldn't remember a bloody thing.

"This forest isn't _that_ big," he told John, even though he didn't know whether or not that was true. It certainly felt big right now. "If we pick one direction and walk in it long enough, we'll find our way out. Just make sure we go in a straight line."

 

John thought that sounded like a good idea; if they just went straight, then they would eventually come out somewhere. He doubted that it was so big that they would get so lost they would never be found again...

But John _was_ nervous. At the end of the day, he was just a nine year old boy, and there were just some things he didn't know.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed. He looked around quickly, squinting in the rain. There was no path anywhere, and everything looked the same, but he could see the river they had just been sitting at through the trees. That meant they just had to go straight the opposite way.

That sounded... good enough.

He could feel his heart beating quick, but he never let go of Sherlock's hand. He would get him out of here if it were the last thing he did! And he'd even make sure he didn't let Sherlock get into too much trouble for getting his nice shoes muddy.

Even if it was probably the last thing they'd get in trouble over.

Though, if they were lucky, they would get back just in time for Sherlock's parent's not to notice. Maybe they could sneak in.

John decided to go with his gut and start leading Sherlock in the opposite direction of the river.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," he told him. "We'll get out of this. I'm your first mate, remember? I wouldn't let anything happen to my captain."

Be brave. That was what he told himself. Just be brave.

He stopped in his tracks just long enough to close his eyes and try to concentrate on anything he could smell. They hadn't walked that far, like Sherlock had said. There was bound to be something...

A branch snapped on their left and John's head turned to the side quickly. There, right out in the open, (and much to John's surprise) was a coyote. Small, not like a wolf, but more like a wild dog. It didn't look threatening, but its ears were perked up in curiosity, perhaps trying to make sense of the strange, conflicting smells it were experiencing itself. Canine, or human?

John immediately stood in front of Sherlock and his mouth instinctively began to turn upwards into a snarl, and it was like he couldn't even quite control it.

Before he did anything more, the dog leapt away, back into the trees.

"C'mon," John said. "I think I know the way now."

 

What had seemed like such a good idea at first was quickly turning into anything but. Where were they? Was John really going to be able to get them out of the woods? How? It was probably dark by now, wasn't it? That meant he couldn't see any better than Sherlock could (that is, not at all), and neither of them even knew which way to go.

Sherlock jumped slightly when he heard the loud snapping of a branch. Almost immediately, it was followed by John snarling.

That couldn't be a good sign.

However, when John spoke, he didn't sound the least bit nervous, really. Sherlock assumed that, if there had been a bear in the woods with them, he would have. Of course they were both nervous because they didn't know where they were, but Sherlock trusted John to get them out.

More or less. He did trust John, but it was a large forest, and they had no idea where they were going.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled as they walked. Each step he took was careful; he was afraid he would step into a hole or right into a snake's nest if he wasn't careful. "I guess I should have told my parents we were coming out. They wouldn't have let us."

It would have annoyed Sherlock then, but he and John would have found something else to do and then they would have completely forgotten about not being allowed in the woods. Unlike now, when all they wanted to do was find their way out of it.

Branches and shrubs brushed against Sherlock's cheeks, hands, and neck as they walked. He knew he had little cuts on his skin, but John probably had the exact same thing. He hoped his parents weren't too mad, and he _really_ hoped that they wouldn't tell John's parents. They would never let John come over again, if they knew Sherlock had taken him out in the woods.

"I like when you growl," he admitted, after a particularly loud roll of thunder echoed out from the sky. "It's interesting. You definitely aren't boring. I was worried you might turn out to be, when we first met, but you haven't yet. I'm glad."

 

"Do you think a lot of people are boring?" John couldn't help but ask the other boy as they continued to walk. He'd never met any other kid his age who called people 'boring' before, so it was certainly strange to John. Sure, he thought some adults were boring, because they talked about politics or news or things and John didn't have the slightest clue about any of that, not to mention they never seemed like they liked to just play.

"I'm glad you're not boring either," he decided. "But you know a lot more things than me. Maybe someday you'll be so smart I won't be able to keep up with you and _then_ you'll think I'm boring."

He chuckled a little bit; there was really no merit or thought in what he said. Was it even possible for someone to become so smart that nobody in the world could compare?

John didn't think so.

After a few minutes of walking, John began to pick up on familiar things; smells and the like, things that told him they were getting closer to where they had come from, which relieved him very much, considering the rain began to fall so hard that even their umbrella was doing little to keep them completely dry.

"I see your house!" he exclaimed, after pushing aside a few branches. "See? Told you I'd find our way out."

 

Sherlock looked forward to the day that he was so smart that John wouldn't be able to keep up with him. It wasn't that he wanted to be better than John, as such (not that he didn't), but Sherlock wanted to be better than _everyone_.

Mycroft especially.

Keeping his hand firm around John's, Sherlock took step after step, doing his best to keep up with the other boy as they, finally, emerged from the woods. Sherlock could tell right when it happened because there were no longer any branches or shrubs brushing against his body. He felt like he could breathe again, and the rain was coming down on them even harder because it didn't have leaves and branches to slow it down.

"Let's be careful," he whispered to John as they neared his house. "Maybe we can sneak in and tell them that we were just in the yard."

Sherlock could hope, anyway. He didn't want his parents to get mad; he didn't want them to forbid him from ever seeing John again.

Once they were walking up the pathway to the front door, Sherlock reached his hand out. He felt the doorknob beneath his fingers and turned it as slowly and quietly as he could. He could hear his mother and father talking from the kitchen. Their voices were calm--in fact, they were just talking about who they were going to invite over for Christmas dinner.

_Phew_.

"Come on, John." Sherlock tugged on John's hand after taking off his own shoes, motioning for John to do the same. He reached down and picked up both pairs and carried them into his bedroom. He stuffed them beneath his bed and then pulled off his coat and scarf, hanging both over the back of his chair.

Before doing anything else, he crumpled up the note he'd written to his parents and binned it.

"I'm so glad they didn't notice we were gone," he said as he sat down on the floor, patting the ground beside him. "Do you want to look at one of my books? I have a bug dictionary. It has a lot of neat pictures."

 

There were a few things John wanted to do before he sat down looking at pictures of bugs. First, he took off his coat and laid it on the back of Sherlock's chair, then his socks, (which had gotten wet in the rain).

"Can I put some of your pyjamas on now?" he asked the other boy. "My trousers are all wet."

It would definitely feel good to be out of wet jeans, (which stuck to him uncomfortably) and wipe off a few of the scrapes he had gotten in their time in the woods.

And, if he were being honest, it would feel good to let his tail out of its confinements for a while.

After making sure the door was shut, John unzipped his trousers and yanked them down his legs before stepping out of them and setting next to his coat. His pants were a little wet, too, but he wondered if it would be too weird to take those off, too, and be naked under someone else's trousers, so he refrained.

His tail would just have to keep inside of them.

"Do you like bugs?" he wanted to know before smirking. "I bet you can name all sorts, with their science name, can't you?"

 

Sherlock got up immediately and walked over to his chest of drawers, which sat right next to the closet. He counted down to the third drawer and got out a clean t-shirt and some loose-fitting shorts. He even got John a pair of socks, just in case his feet were cold.

While he was up, Sherlock decided that he, too, would prefer to be in warm and dry clothes than what he was currently wearing. He stripped down to nothing and then got a pair of boxers on, followed by a pair of fleece pants and a t-shirt. After getting the book he desired off the shelf (they were arranged alphabetically, so he remembered where it was located) he sat back down on the floor again.

Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of him and then opened the book on his lap, angling it so John would be able to see it and read from it, as well as look at the pictures contained within. Some were real photographs and others were hand-drawn, Sherlock remembered. There were even maps that showed where in the world each bug could be found!

"I like all sorts of things," he answered. "Bugs, yes. Other animals, too. And science. Maths are okay, but they aren't my favourite. Forensics, like I said...criminology. Psychology can be interesting, too. Or philosophy. Sometimes. A lot of times philosophy is boring. Just a lot of old people sitting around and arguing."

Sherlock turned the page in his book, moving past the table of contents and to the first bug.

"Maybe if we caught you a really cool bug, your parents would let you keep it. I don't think they'll make a really good pet, though. Maybe if it's a big spider, or an ant colony. I'm sure we could find some ants. All you need is a vase, or something that you can see through. They eat sugar-water. And dirt. I think."

 

John wasn't so sure he wanted to have a big spider or an ant colony for a pet. Whenever he imagined having one, he pictured something big and extravagant, like a wild animal or a horse or something. That would be cool.

He didn't know much about forensics or philosophy or anything like that, though. Home schooling didn't teach that stuff; it was mostly Maths, Science and grammar. Things like that.

He walked over to where Sherlock was sitting and sat down right beside him, shoulders touching and legs outstretched in front of him. He glanced down at the book in Sherlock's lap and lifted an eyebrow.

"Do you like chameleons?" he asked the other boy. "I think they're really cool, the way they can change colours and stuff. I like reptiles. They remind me of dinosaurs."

He crinkled up his nose as Sherlock turned the page. Grubs as big as the human hand, ugly spiders, horned-beetles. John tried to imagine holding one of them and it sent shivers through him.

"My mum wouldn't let anything like that in our house. She hates bugs."

 

Sherlock glanced down at the book, despite being unable to see it. He didn't think there were any pictures of chameleons in it, but John must have been thinking about them to ask if he liked them.

"I don't know if I've ever seen one," he admitted. "I've heard of them, though. Oh, wait! I have seen one, in a book. I remember its eyes rolling around a lot. Yeah, I did like it. I would get one, if I could. Even if it changed its colors, though, I wouldn't be able to see it...so I guess it wouldn't have any reason to do it. It wouldn't have to hide, since I couldn't see it anyway."

Just like in the woods, John's body was warm against his own. Sherlock liked how close they were sitting. It had been a while since he had cuddled with his parents, and he never did so with Mycroft, but with John it was--nice.

Very much so.

From down the hall, Sherlock could hear his mother saying 'Go and tell the boys it's time for dinner'. Quickly, he gasped and shut the book, turning to look at John.

"Hide your ears!" he said softly, not knowing whether or not John had them out in the first place. With John wearing Sherlock's own shorts and a shirt, he would probably look strange if he kept his cap on but wore pyjamas otherwise. It wasn't worth taking the risk; John had made Sherlock promise that he wouldn't tell anyone, and Sherlock wanted to get more of an idea of how his parents would react before he even thought about letting them know about his friend.

With John's permission, of course.

It was only a few seconds later that his father knocked on their door and then opened it.

"Sherlock, John, are you two ready to eat?"

 

John quickly stood up, turning his back towards the door and lifting his hands up to his head. It was only by some luck that his pins hadn't gotten lost in the run through the woods and, with practiced fingers, he slotted his ears down to his head. The door opened with just enough time for Sherlock’s father to see John turning around quickly.

"Yes, I'm ready," he said immediately. "Ready, Sherlock?"

Thankfully, it didn't appear as though Sherlock’s father had thought anything strange had been happening inside the room, and he only offered a kind smile before stepping aside to usher them out.

Sherlock's mum was setting the table whenever they entered the kitchen; something that smelled strongly of roast. John waited for Sherlock to sit down before taking the seat next to him and scooting himself in. The table was made of mahogany and all the place settings looked like the kind John's mum only took out on holidays or special occasions.

The food, though, that was what John's main focus was. His stomach grumbled loudly and only then did he realize how hungry he actually had been.

It was a bit exciting, though, knowing that they sat here at the table after having just gone through their little adventure in the woods. It was like getting away with a crime, and sitting here with Sherlock’s parents knowing _they_ didn't know made him grin a little.

And nobody was any wiser for it.

 

Sherlock could smell everything his mother had prepared. Roast beef, roasted carrots, onions, and potatoes, rolls with garlic butter, and, for dessert, apple pie.

Both her and his father were excellent cooks, although Father worked during the day, leaving Mother with more time to do the preparation and the actual cooking. That wasn't to say that she didn't stay busy with other things; she most certainly did. She ran errands, tended the garden, kept the house clean, taught both of her boys, visited with the neighbours, and even remained an active member in a book club and, from time to time, would help the sons and daughters of her friends with their maths homework, if they were struggling.

"The roast is at twelve o'clock, Sherlock," Thomas said as he sat down at the head of the table. "Potatoes and carrots at two, rolls at five."

Sherlock didn't need to be told, as he could make out each individual smell and where it was coming from, but it did still help him to visualise where each of the dishes were on the table. He leaned forward and got a roll for himself, then gripped the warm basket in his hand and passed it to John, doing the same for the other platters.

Wilma found herself staring at John for a moment longer than she'd intended. After all, there _was_ something peculiar about him.

She wouldn't mention it. Not right now.

Nor would she mention the fact that they had been outside, without permission, in the _rain_. Rest assured, though, she would give Sherlock a stern talking to after John left.

"So, John," she began, looking up from cutting her roast to smile at her son's new--and only--friend, "what do your parents do? Your mother seems nice. I didn't talk to her much, granted, but she looked like a kind woman. Your father too; he seemed like a wonderful fellow."

 

John was genuinely surprised that Mrs. Holmes asked him about his parents. It was hard not to be just a little bit embarrassed by them sometimes, even at his age, if just because they hadn't been the most outwardly friendly with Sherlock’s mum, especially after she had gone and bought John a toy, but at least they hadn't snatched John away.

When Sherlock handed him the plate of meat, (which John was sure to take carefully) he placed a bit on his plate before setting it down in front of him.

"My dad works with cars," he said, looking up at Mrs. Holmes with a small smile. "He fixes them at our house sometimes. We have a garage that has all these parts in it. That's where he's at most of the time."

John wasn't entirely sure he was a 'wonderful fellow', at least to other people, but John still loved him. He wanted his approval and attention. It was hard sometimes because his dad was pretty quiet, often kept to himself, but on the rare occasions when John got to see him really smile, when he would be feeling affectionate and take his mum by the waist and give her a quick kiss and a gentle smile, John would always smile too.

"My mum stays at home to take care of me and my sister, but she used to be a nurse a long time ago. I don't know why she stopped, because she was really good at it. I think it was when I was little, though."

He picked up his fork and his knife before beginning to cut into the beef, which was so tender it took nothing at all.

John looked over at Sherlock, then, and spoke again.

"My mum must have liked you," he said. "I don't get to play with other kids."

 

Sherlock knew very little about cars, other than how to ride in one. He had always thought it would be fun to drive a car, too--probably faster than he was supposed to--but now, without being able to see, he would obviously never have the opportunity.

There were a lot of things he would never have the opportunity to do, now.

He was almost envious of John, having a dad that knew a lot about cars. His father could do the basics, but he had a mechanic that he took their cars to because he didn't know how to do very much to fix them when they broke down.

Sherlock heard Mycroft sit down across from him. His breathing was heavy and he sighed, no doubt looking at the table and wondering why there wasn't even more food. Sherlock always thought that Mycroft ate too much. Even if he didn't say it, he still thought it.

He smiled when he heard that John's mother must have liked him. Sherlock thought it was more likely that she just felt bad for him, since he was blind, but he didn't mind. He was just glad that it had gotten them permission for John to come over and play with him.

He hoped it would continue to work like that.

Sherlock reached forward, carefully, and brought his glass of milk up to his lips. He used his napkin to wipe it away from his lip and then set the cloth down in his lap. His parents had been teaching him and Mycroft from an early age about how to eat like 'gentlemen'. Apparently it had stuck.

So far, anyway.

"I don't get to play with other kids, either," Sherlock said, only to have his mother hiss his name. "Well I don't!"

Thomas was scooping himself some vegetables. He cleared his throat and looked at John as he took a sip of wine. "I'm sure you've noticed that Sherlock isn't entirely like other children, John. Not because he's blind, but because he's quite smart."

From across the table, Mycroft snorted.

 

John watched the newcomer walk into the room and take a seat at the table across from him curiously. He made the connection that this was the Mycroft person that Sherlock had mentioned more than once, but he didn't look much like Sherlock at all. But maybe that was how some siblings were; John didn't think he and Harry looked much alike, either, except maybe their shared hair and eye colour.

"Hullo," he said to him politely, because that was what he was always taught was the polite thing. He picked up the bowl of rolls that was sitting in front of him and held them out to the teenager.

"I know," he said, answering Sherlock's father. "He's the smartest kid I've ever met. I've never met anyone else who does experiments before."

He smiled a little before looking sideways at Sherlock. He really wished Sherlock could see him, though. He wanted to know what he looked like when his eyes lit up with expression, and know that it was John he was seeing. Now, Sherlock could only turn his face in his direction and blink his big, cloudy eyes at him.

But then, John supposed, he rather thought he looked neat like that, too.

"We're going to do experiments together sometime. Or maybe I'll just watch you do it."

 

Just like his mother, Mycroft eye John a bit longer than necessary. There was just _something_ off about him. Something about his hair--his head.

He couldn't put his finger on it, just yet, but he knew it would come to him. Things of that nature always did, sooner than later.

He said nothing in response to John's greeting, which surprised neither Sherlock nor their parents. Instead, Sherlock just smiled, glad to hear that he was the smartest person--kid, anyway--that John had ever met before. He'd said that he hadn't met many, but that didn't matter. Sherlock knew that, even if John had met plenty of kids and had many friends, he would still be smarter than them.

Unless Mycroft was his friend, but Sherlock didn't think that was very likely to ever happen.

"We'll have to choose something really good," Sherlock told the other boy. He ate a few carrots and then tore open his roll and smeared some butter on it. "I heard you can melt metal with copper wire. Oh! Or we can start a fire with magnesium and dry ice. I heard--"

From his spot at the table, Thomas cleared his throat. "Are those the safest experiments you have, Sherlock?" Letting their own son do something was stressful enough, but with another family's child involved?

Definitely not.

Sherlock scowled before groaning. He didn't want his curiosity to be stifled. That was how people turned into idiots!

"I _suppose_ we can make carbon dioxide and use it to put out candles," he acquiesced. Turning to John, he added, "It's really easy. You just mix baking soda and vinegar together, and it makes carbon dioxide gas. When you pour the gas out of the beaker you mixed them in, it comes out and pushes the oxygen away from the flame, and since fire needs oxygen, the candles go out."

"Don't be afraid to tell him if you get tired of experiments, John," Wilma said, pointing her fork at Sherlock. "He'll have you doing nothing but if you don't. Believe me. His father, Mycroft, and I have all been there."

 

John almost felt like he wasn’t smart enough to be hanging around Sherlock. When he spoke about carbon dioxide gas and oxygen and the like, he had to admit he wasn't entirely certain what all that meant.

Maybe he needed to start paying a little more attention when his teacher started getting to that stuff.

John was intelligent. He could read really well and while he struggled with Maths sometimes, he could still do other things really well. He just didn't want to be spending a lot of time sitting and studying things when he could be out having fun and playing. He was only nine, after all.

"I think I can handle it," John said with a smile. "Hopefully he won't get tired of me, first."

He reached for his fork and took a bite of his roast. It melted in his mouth and he hummed quietly before taking another bite. They never had anything like this at his house. Mum usually made simple things, like spaghetti or sandwiches. Things like this were usually saved for the holidays.

He shifted a little in his seat. His tailbone was a little sore from sitting on the long bones that extended from it. He never had to keep it tucked away for so long.

After a moment, John looked back at Mycroft. The boy was busy eating, with his eyes down at the plate, and he hadn't said anything in return to John, so he tried again.

"Do you do experiments, too?"

 

Sherlock knew that Mycroft was being addressed when John asked about experiments, just because he could tell what direction John's voice was moving towards. He very nearly laughed at the thought of his brother doing experiments.

Mycroft hated them.

Maybe he just hated the ones Sherlock did; the younger boy wasn't sure, but he assumed Mycroft hated them all. That made far more sense in his mind. The ones Sherlock did, he thought, were interesting. Some weren't--such as carbon dioxide putting out candles; he'd already done it before--but there were others that he wanted to do that he thought would be fun.

Most of them involved fire.

"I do not," Mycroft answered curtly. "My brother is more interested in such things than I am. Myself, I find them to be a waste of time that could be better spent doing something else."

"Like what?" Sherlock was quick to ask. "Eating?"

He didn't _mean_ to be mean, as such...but Mycroft had started it! He called his experiments a waste of time, knowing how important they were to him, and so it was only fair to insult his eating, wasn't it? Eating was important to Mycroft.

"Sherlock," his father warned, snapping his fingers as if he was trying to get the attention of a dog. Speaking of which, Sherlock wondered if John’s parents ever did things like that. Called him 'puppy', as he had, or played fetch, told him that he was a 'good boy'.

Maybe he was too human for those things.

After a few more bites of his vegetables and roast, Sherlock pushed his plate forward. He stood up and tugged on John's sleeve.

"Come on, John. Are you tired yet? I'm not. Anyway, you can take a bath if you want, before we go to bed. I had one this morning. I can sit in there and talk to you while you do. Don't worry; I won't be able to see you naked. Obviously."

 

John took a few more quick bites of his food when Sherlock announced that he was ready to leave. He didn't really want to be stuck sitting at the dinner table with Sherlock's mum, dad and brother without him. Not that his parents weren't nice, but John would feel far more comfortable just staying with him, since he didn't know the others too well.

Especially since his brother didn't seem to care to talk to John much.

"Thank you for dinner," he said to Mrs. Holmes, smiling at her before pushing his chair away from the table and hoping down. He followed Sherlock out of the dining room and down the hall towards his room.

"I'll take a bath," John said with a nod. His arms had some dried dirt on them, and he couldn't very well get into Sherlock's bed when they _did_ go to sleep all dirty. The thought about Sherlock being in there with him didn't even faze him.

"You can tell me another story, if you want," John said, when Sherlock led him into the guest bathroom and closed the door. It was large and spacious, with fluffy white throw rugs on the floor and flowery wallpaper. John decided to wait until the bath was filled before he got undressed, so he walked over to the tub and put the stopper in, (he didn't have to ask how his bath worked, John was perfectly capable of figuring that out) before turning on the water.

"Do you have bubbles?"

 

Sherlock hadn't taken a bath with anyone in years. He'd heard that he and Mycroft had bathed a little bit together, just because their parents hadn't wanted him to be in the bath alone but they hadn't had time to look after him for whatever reason, but that hadn't lasted long at all.

"We have bubbles. I like making a lot of them."

Sherlock dug around in the cabinet beside the sink until his hand fell on the familiar, squishy bottle with the dinosaur-shaped cap. The water was loud as it filled up the tub, and Sherlock unscrewed the cap from the bubbles and squirted a good amount--maybe too much--of the solution into the water, then bent down so he could swirl it around with his hand.

Sherlock got on his knees and crossed his arms on the edge of the tub. The water felt nice on his hands, even though he wasn't the one getting in. He had thought about taking a bath with John, but the tub was small and, well...maybe that was a little too weird.

He didn't want John to think he was strange.

Sherlock could feel the bubbles foaming up on the water, growing inch by inch. He hoped there were enough for John to think it was fun.

"What kind of story do you want me to tell you?" Sherlock asked. "The Grinch was one that I _read_ to you. I guess I cheated a little. Have you ever read Treasure Island? I like that book a lot. It's about pirates. One of them has a peg leg."

Without a doubt, it was Sherlock's favourite book.

Besides his chemistry textbooks.

And his books about bugs.

And criminals.

 


	8. Chapter 8

John waited until the water was nearly all the way filled before he got undressed. His (Sherlock's) shirt went first, and he let it drop to the floor before pulling down his pyjama bottoms, his pants, and stepping out of them.

He _almost_ let out a long, drawn out sigh, feeling his long, golden tail springing free. It didn't stand up, exactly, but hung close to his body. Even so, it was no longer squished down in-between his legs any longer, but could gently sway freely from side to side.

He got a good look at himself in the mirror across from him. He really did look strange. A boy's face, a boy's body, but with two perky ears sticking out the top of his head, (though were currently pinned down) and a tail sticking out his backside. He didn't look at himself often like this, and he tilted his head to the side as he, (unabashedly) stared at his naked body.

"You can tell me Treasure Island," John said, blinking away from his reflection and walking over to the tub. He eased one foot down into the hot water and it sent shivers through him before he got in completely and sat down in the large, hot tub. He groaned in pleasure before grinning across at the other boy. "You have to tell it really good, though, like you did the other one."

He leaned over the tub and rested his arms on the edge before setting his chin on them.

He would clean himself shortly. But for now, he quite liked this.

 

Naturally, Sherlock felt proud when John told him that he'd read The Grinch really good. Sherlock didn't care for fictional stories, really, but he would tell John as many as he wanted him to, if it meant he would get complimented for it.

Sherlock could tell that John was right next to him. Both of them had their arms crossed on the tub and were, he assumed, looking a each other. Well, he was looking at John and he didn't see any reason why the other boy wouldn't be looking at him, too.

"Okay," Sherlock began, "the book starts off with a letter. The main character is a boy named Jim Hawkins. He's being told to write a letter about his adventures.

"Jim's father owns an inn--that's a hotel--called the Admiral Benbow. This old man comes to stay at the inn. He pays in gold. He paid for a few days, but he ends up staying a long time. He's a pirate, but you don't know that yet. Oh. Maybe I shouldn't have said.

"Anyway. He tells Jim to look for a one-legged sailor, because he's really scared of him, but he's afraid the sailor is going to find him. Eventually he does. There's a lot of people that come and go at the inn, but none of them have just one leg. Then someone comes and asks for someone named Bill, or Billy Bones. That's the name of the man staying at the inn."

Sherlock paused. He felt like he was out of breath from all that talking, and it was a bloody lot to say. It would have been better if he recited the book, but he didn't think John would like that quite as much.

"It's a long story," Sherlock said with a sheepish smile. "But it's good."

Sherlock held out his hand, hesitating before he actually made contact with John's body.

"Can I touch your ears again?"

 

John was grinning a little bit when Sherlock was trying--the key word--to tell him the story of Treasure Island.

Maybe another time, when they had the book.

When Sherlock reached for his head, John's eyes followed his hand and his head tilted curiously to the side.

"You don't have to ask," John told him. "So long as it's not in public. But I like when you do."

Even if it had only happened the once, so far.

He took one hand out of the tub, water dripping audibly back into it and he reached for the top of his head so he could pull out the little pins. Immediately his ears perked up again and he sighed when Sherlock's hand made contact. A lazy smile spread across his face.

It was so mischievous what he was doing; right outside Sherlock's mum and dad and brother were walking around, and only a door separated them from seeing what John was really like. What he looked like. And here he was letting Sherlock completely see him.

Well. Sort of.

What would it be like if someday Sherlock could see him? Would that ever be possible? Would it ever happen? To see Sherlock, to see his reaction in his eyes... John thought he very much would have liked that. Very much so.

After a few moments of Sherlock touching them, and of John watching him touch him, he wet his lips slowly and glanced down at the floor.

"I have--I have more, too," he began. "I have a--well, don't think it's too weird or anything, but... I have a tail."

He paused, then, and moved both of his arms back into the warm water.

"If you want I can show you when I get out."

 

Sherlock smiled when he was given permission to touch John's ears, not just right then but whenever nobody was looking. Or, rather, when it wasn't in public. Sherlock was more than happy to go along with that, if it would let him keep his new friend and keep feeling the strange ears that rested atop his head.

Being only eight years old, Sherlock didn't have enough life experience--or intelligence--to know how John had been turned into what he was. He knew that people weren't /born/ that way, but what he didn't know was how they came to be. Still, John had seemed to want him to find out, so Sherlock made a promise to himself that he would do so, as soon as he was able.

"A _tail_?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask, gasping as his cloudy eyes widened. John said to not think it was too weird; Sherlock felt the exact opposite. He thought that it was the weirdest--and, therefore, most interesting--thing he had ever heard of.

People didn't have tails. Sherlock had heard of a few isolated cases where someone had been born with an extension from their spine that looked like a tail, but Sherlock could only assume John's wasn't like that. No, his was probably proper, like a dog's, and he truly did want to see it, just to satisfy his own curiosity.

"I'd like that," he confirmed, nodding his head eagerly. Sherlock scratched John's ears with his fingernails, lightly pinching and tugging on them to massage them. He brought one hand up and felt his own ear while his other remained on John's, just to feel the obvious differences between the two.

"Would you ever live on an island?" he asked suddenly, thinking about the story he had been telling John. "One without any other people? I think I might, but I'd get bored there really soon. I like talking to you about my experiments and things. I'd want you to be there with me."

 

John eventually pulled away from Sherlock's hand so that he could reach for the soap and begin lathering up his arms and chest. The water was so warm, the bathroom just slightly steamy and the bubbles high that John didn't want to get out. He'd done that sometimes; stay in the tub longer than strictly necessary to play in the warm water. He hadn't played with toys in the tub since he was younger, but this was okay, too.

"I don't know," he said honestly, setting the soap down again and thinking about it. "It would get lonely if I was alone, though. If you were there it would be better. And I would get bored eating sea food all the time. But I heard some places are _like_ islands. I saw on telly that Japan and New Zealand are islands. I've never been to either one, though, but maybe those kinds. Maybe the one with no people I could live on for a couple days before I'd get too lonely."

Once his chest and arms were nice and lathered with the lavender-smelling soap, John reached for the bottle of shampoo and poured a little bit into his hands. He didn't really have to wash his hair, but now that he was in the tub, he wanted to.

"Maybe if we're still friends when we grow up, we can go visit an island together," he said, washing behind his ears carefully. "Maybe we can go a bunch of places together."

After he was finished washing, he leaned back, laying himself out in the tub and submerging himself into the water. When he came back up again, he pushed his hair back until it lay flat on his head, with just his ears springing up.

His eyes found Sherlock again and he grinned playfully. He took a handful of bubbles in one hand before blowing on them hard at Sherlock's face, giggling immediately when big foamy bubbles landed on his cheek and nose.

 

Sherlock didn't see any reason why they wouldn't still be friends when they were older. The only thing that would stop them, he thought, was if their parents wouldn't let them see one another again. But why would they do that? He and John were getting along just fine. They weren't causing any trouble (except for going in the woods earlier, but his parents hadn't said anything about it, so Sherlock hoped that meant they didn't know).

Anyway, wasn't it good that he was socialising with another boy his age? Sherlock didn't know of any parents that didn't want that for their child. Whenever he went with his mother to their neighbour's house, or went to visit his extended family, his parents would always encourage him to talk, especially to his cousins. Sherlock would do so, reluctantly, and he always ended up wishing he hadn't.

Sherlock felt the bubbles on his face before he pieced together what had happened. He reached up and touched them, feeling them popping beneath his fingers, crackling as they disappeared. He grinned and reached down into the water, scooping up two big handfuls of bubbles so he could put them on top of John's ears. The next handful he got, he pressed against John's chin.

"There. Now you look like you have a beard and moustache." Immediately, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and frowned. "Don't _ever_ grow a moustache. You'd look awful with one."

Sherlock stood up and got a dry towel out from beneath the sink. He held it out to John to take and then sat on the toilet, the lid down.

"Are you ready to get out? Hurry up, because I want to see your tail. Well, I say 'see'. You know what I mean. And I'm cold; we should go lay in bed and read, or something. Do you know any scary stories? I like those. You could tell me one, or I could tell you. Either way."

 

There was something very endearing, (not that he knew the word, but the feeling was there about the way that Sherlock said he would look awful with a mustache, despite never seeing him before. It made a warmth bubble in his chest and a grin split across his face.

He liked Sherlock. Very much so.

He reached for the towel as he stood up, water and bubbles dripping from his body and back into the tub before he stepped out on the mat and wrapped the towel around his waist.

"I know some scary stories," he announced, smirking a little as he pat himself dry. His tail, with its long hair, was the hardest part to dry, which meant it had to do so on its own.

He cleared his throat a little before looking down at himself. Yes, he was naked, but it wasn't like Sherlock could see him anyway, so there wasn't any need for shyness.

"If you want to touch, you can," he said. "It's easier without clothes on or else it gets stuffed inside. Some of my clothes at home have holes in the back so that it can be out, but..." he shrugged a little bit before turning around. "Just put your hand on my back and move down. It's right at the bottom of my spine."

 

Sherlock was glad John knew scary stories, and he made a promise to himself that he would look for scary books the next time he was allowed to order books online. It was much easier to look for books on the internet than trying to find what he wanted in the bookstore, since braille books were hard to come by in the first place.

"Of course it's at the bottom of your spine," Sherlock teased. "Nobody has a tail growing out of their stomach or the side of their head."

Well, nobody had tails, anyway. Nobody but animals. Sherlock thought that, but he didn't say it to John. Despite the canine features, John seemed determined to come across as a normal little boy.

Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder. He slid it down the back of his shoulder blade, until it moved into the middle of his back, and traveled downwards. It took no time at all for his fingers to come into contact with something warm, fuzzy, and firm that was sticking right out of John's back, just above his rear end, at his tailbone.

Sherlock nearly pulled his hand away. After all, his hand had never been that close to...that part, of somebody, before. He knew not to go around touching peoples' butts, and truth be told, he didn't want to, but he _did_ want to feel John's tail.

Carefully, Sherlock lifted John's tail, holding it in both his hands. It had a lot of fur on it; that was the first thing that he noticed. The second was that it was long, completely in proportion with John's human size.

"This is so weird," he breathed, gently tugging on the appendage just to confirm that it was, indeed, attached to John. He felt with his fingers around the base of it; sure enough, it was.

"Oh--I didn't mean that you are weird, or that _it’s_ weird. I just meant...you know. That you--that you have one."

Well, shoot. There didn't seem to be anything Sherlock could say to dig himself out of the hole he'd put himself in.

"I like it," he decided to say, truthfully. "It feels nice. Does it wag, too?"

 

Rather than answer, John only smirked a little bit and let Sherlock feel for himself, as his tail began to wag gently back and forth.

"I'm glad it doesn't bother you," he said truthfully. "Nobody else knows, so nobody else has said they don't like it, but I don't know if they would feel the same. My mum and dad say that everyone would think it was too weird. They said people might not want to be my friend or get to know me if they knew."

He frowned a little at the thought; he was glad Sherlock hadn't been like that.

He let Sherlock continue to feel the fur for a few more moments before pulling away so he could reach down and pull on the pyjamas that he had been wearing before.

"It wags sometimes when I can't help it. If I get too excited or happy, it'll do it on its own. Sometimes I have to be careful."

After he was fully dressed again, he pinned down his ears, (at least until he was in the bedroom with the door closed) and folded his towels.

"Ready?"

 

Sherlock nodded his head right away. He was more than ready to go back to his room. Even if he and John didn't do something that was, traditionally, 'exciting', he decided that he would be eager to do anything with John, regardless of what it was.

That might change in the future, but Sherlock wasn't concerning himself with that just yet.

Taking John's hand, he followed the other boy back to his bedroom. He knew where it was, of course, but their house was large--maybe John didn't know where it was. Halfway there, Sherlock realised what a silly thing to think that was, as John had a nose on him that was better than anyone else he knew. Of course John would be able to find his way back.

Once they were back in his bedroom, Sherlock shut the door behind them. He got a torch from his nightstand drawer and brought it into bed with him. He didn't need it any longer, of course, but he'd had it there in case the power had ever gone out, and now he thought John might like to use it to light the little cave that, he assumed, they would make with the blankets.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" he asked John, sliding beneath the thick, puffy comforter. "I don't. Not since I was a baby. I don't remember what they were about, but my parents said I would wake up crying." He scoffed. "I think they just made that up. I don't cry.

"But, if _you_ have nightmares, maybe we shouldn't tell scary stories." Sherlock smirked. "I don't want to scare you too badly."

 

John scoffed and followed Sherlock into his bed eagerly, climbing up on the tall, soft mattress and laying down right beside him. There were two pillows, and John scooted his head to the very edge of his so that he could be as close to Sherlock as possible.

"I don't have nightmares," he then insisted, yanking the comforter up and over their heads and tucking it under them. Sherlock's bed was so cozy and spacious and the comforter made it feel like they were in a cave or a den, and John thought briefly that he wished he could spend the night every night.

"And even if I did have them, they wouldn't scare me, you know. I'm brave. Maybe the bravest."

He clicked on the torch and set it upright so that the light was pointing up at the covers, and gave their little cave an ambient feel to it. John lied on his side, facing Sherlock, and put one arm underneath his head to support it.

"Okay, you go first," John insisted. He was eager to hear what someone like Sherlock--smart, intelligent, brilliant--knew for scary stories. From the short time they had known each other, John didn't get much that told him he was interested in such things, so that made it all the more interesting for him.

"What kind do you like? Ghost stories?"

 

Sherlock wet his lips. He could feel his blanket on top of him, warm and enclosing, and it made him feel snug.

Having John underneath helped, too. He could hear the other boy's breathing and smell his breath--it smelled like meat and gravy from dinner, not unpleasant at all--and it comforted him, in some strange way. Just knowing that John was there, that he wanted to be there, made Sherlock feel better than he would have ever expected.

Sherlock almost scooted closer to John, just so he could hold his hand or rest his head against his shoulder, but at the last minute he decided against it. Still, he remained fairly close.

"Okay," he began, grinning, "here's my story. So there's a little boy--nine years old, just like you--who's lying in bed one night. Suddenly he hears really heavy footsteps outside his door. He peeks out from under his blanket and sees a really big, scary man carrying his parents' bodies, covered in blood. The murderer puts the bodies in a chair and then uses their blood to write something on the wall.

"The room is really dark, so the boy can't see what he wrote. He hears the man walking across the room and getting under his bed. Of course, the boy pretends to be asleep. He stays really still, even though he's terrified and can hear the murderer breathing beneath his bed."

At this point, Sherlock did move a little bit closer to John. Just in case he was scared. _Sherlock_ certainly wasn't.

"An hour passes, and of course the boy stays awake. His eyes are adjusting to the dark. Eventually he can make out what the blood-writing on the wall said: 'I know you're awake.'" Sherlock paused. Softly, he finished, "And then he felt the man move beneath his bed."

Sherlock couldn't even _imagine_ what he would do in that situation.

"Okay," he said, the smile still on his face, "your turn. If you aren't too scared."

 

John was listening intently as Sherlock told his story, (as if there was any other way to listen to a scary story). His eyes were slightly widened and he stared into Sherlock's own clouded ones, holding himself back from scooting closer.

Thankfully, Sherlock did that for him.

When it was revealed that the killer knew the boy was awake, John's hand, which had at some point made a fist in the sheets, tightened.

When Sherlock concluded his story, John let out a little breath and grinned in relief, though he was still just a _little_ chilled by the tale.

If he tucked the covers a bit tighter around them to make sure no murderer outside their little cave could get them, he didn't make it too noticeable.

"Okay," he said, keeping his face close to Sherlock and wetting his lips. "So. There was once a little boy, and his name was Charlie. One night, Charlie's mum walked him up the stairs to his bedroom and put him to bed, and she gave him a kiss on the head before she left the room and closed the door. He was pretty tired, and he fell asleep right away.

And then, as he slept, he heard a voice in his head. It was a soft voice, deep like a man's, but like the person was whispering in his ear. And the voice said: 'Charlie, I'm coming inside your house.'"

John paused just long enough for him to adjust the flashlight beside them before he went on.

"Charlie was only dreaming of course, and it was just a really weird dream. But the voice kept whispering in his ear. 'Charlie, I'm opening your front door.' And somewhere he could hear what sounded like a door opening, softly, softly. And the voice continued. And it said: Charlie, I'm on the first step. Charlie, I'm on the second step... Charlie... I'm on the third step.

Suddenly, he woke up. The next morning, he told his mum about his strange dream and she only smiled and told him it was a funny one to have, but not to worry about it. And that night, when she took him up the stairs at bedtime, and tucked him in and kissed his head and walked out, before closing his door.

And then... he heard the voice in his head again. And it said, 'Charlie, I'm on the fourth step.... I'm on the fifth step, Charlie. You're so close Charlie, and now I'm on the eighth step."

John kept his voice low and soft as he spoke, and he kept his eyes trained on Sherlock, wishing for just a moment he could see the other boy's eyes widen.

"The next morning, Charlie woke up and told him mum about the voice again. But like before, she only told him that it was a silly dream and everyone has them. Until the next night.

'Charlie, I'm on the tenth step.... I'm opening your door now, Charlie.' And somewhere, even though he couldn't bring himself to move, he heard the familiar sound of his door opening.

'Charlie',” John whispered, leaning in close to Sherlock. "'Charlie... I can smell you... Charlie... Charlie..."

John's voice was barely above a whisper as he repeated the name, over and over again, until Sherlock had to strain to even hear it, before he suddenly exclaimed, "BOO!" and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders with a wide grin.

 

Sherlock was trying to picture every aspect of the story inside his mind. What did Charlie look like? How old was he, exactly? Did he have a father? What was his bedroom like? When he spoke to his mother, was he frantic? Did she give any indication of knowing what the dream--dreams--meant? Maybe she was just pretending to be ignorant, pretending to comfort her son.

Anyway, what did she look like? What did she sound like? What did the man sound like? What it a dream, or was someone actually whispering to Charlie? If so, who, and how?

As the source of the voice grew closer, Sherlock decided that nothing he had been thinking about actually mattered.

He wet his lips. His heart was beginning to beat faster inside his chest; whether it was from nerves or excitement, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was from both.

The same with his quickened breathing.

Sherlock hadn't expected the finale that John gave. He'd thought that Charlie would be stabbed or eaten, but instead it was _Sherlock_ who felt hands gripping his shoulders and a loud, booming voice in his ear shouting 'BOO!'

Needless to say, Sherlock jumped. If John hadn't been touching him, he felt, there would have been a good choice that he would jump right off the bed and touch the ceiling. That was how scared he was.

He gasped loudly, too, a sharp inhalation that forced him to cough a few times and then clear his throat.

"You're a--you're a really good story-teller, John," he told the other boy, _possibly_ while scooting just a little bit closer to him. If John was a real puppy, Sherlock would have been holding him tight against his body.

"I have another one. There was a little boy who lived with his mother, and she told him to never go down in the basement. He heard sounds like a puppy coming from down there, though, and he wanted a puppy, so of course he wanted to go down and get it. One day, he opened the basement door and started to tiptoe down the steps. He didn't see a puppy, and then his mother yanked him out of the basement and scolded him.

"The boy was really sad, because his mother never yelled at him. He cried. She told him to never go into the basement again and then gave him a cookie."

Sherlock wet his lips. "Well, that made the little boy feel better, so he went to his room instead of asking his mother why the little girl in the basement was making sounds like a puppy, or why she had no hands or feet."

The image was gruesome, and frightening, and Sherlock thought just then that, for as boring and embarrassing as his parents were, he was glad that he had never found a child with no hands or feet in any of their rooms.

 

John inhaled sharply at the short, but swift, climax of Sherlock's story. The image was frightening and awful, and his eyes widened at what his brain had conjured up. He imagined a gruesome scene, a sad scene, of someone being trapped in a dark, dank room with no hands or feet and no way of escaping. It sent shivers up his spine, and it made him erupt into nervous giggles, as adrenaline made him feel giddy. He grabbed Sherlock's hand with one of his own before squeezing it tightly without letting go.

"Okay, my turn, my turn... once there was a little girl who begged her mum and dad for a dog. After a long, long time they finally got her one, and every night, it slept right next to her bed. One night, the girl woke up to a strange noise, but it went away quickly and so she ignored it. She put her hand down off the side of her bed like she sometimes did to pet her dog, and she felt him licking her hand. After a few minutes of that, she pulled her hand back up to the bed and went to sleep. But the next morning, when the sun was out and her room was lit up, she jumped off her bed to greet her new puppy. And then she saw it: blood everywhere, and a note that said, 'Humans can lick, too.'"

John actually didn't like that story too much because he didn't like the image of dogs getting hurt, (maybe it struck too close to home) but he remembered the first time he heard it, he had been frightened. Surely Sherlock would think it was scary, too.

 

Sherlock could practically feel the chills shooting right up his spine, tingling each and every vertebra as he thought about the terrifying ending to John's story. He couldn't imagine being in bed and waking up to a dead dog, especially when that was accompanied with a note suggesting that her hand had been licked by a person.

Disgusting!

Sherlock scooted closer to John, so much so that their bodies were touching, now. Pressing his forehead lightly against John's, he pushed his head back so he, too, could share the same pillow. It was still so warm in their little blanket-cave, but not uncomfortably so, and Sherlock realised that he felt safer there with John than he would have felt sleeping in bed with both of his parents.

Not that he ever did that.

"My turn. So, there's a teenage girl staying at home alone for the first time, in the middle of winter. It's snowing outside, and really cold. Her name is...Lisa. She's sitting on the couch, watching a horror movie and eating popcorn, having a good time. Well, then she seems something moving outside the window...she looks up, and it's a man! There's a man looking in at her! He's got scars all over his face and he smiles at her, real scary. He moves his hand, and that's when Lisa realises that he's holding a long knife. She can see the snow falling behind him, but he doesn't even seem bothered by it.

"Lisa pulled the blankets up over her head, hoping that he wouldn't see her. When she peeked again, he was still there, looking right at her. She pulled the blankets over her head a second time and then called for emergency services on her mobile.

"She was really scared, because she was sure the man would come inside and kill her before the police arrived. A few minutes passed and then she heard sirens, and the police started knocking on her door. She told them what she had seen, and where, and the policeman told her that it was impossible. He said the snow outside the window wasn't disturbed, and that, if someone had been standing there, there would have been foot prints.

"Of course Lisa is upset about that, because she _saw_ the man. The policeman walks over to her to put his hand on her shoulder, and then he stops and frowns. He's looking behind the couch, and Lisa turns to look, too...she sees wet foot prints and a long knife behind the couch, the same knife the man was holding! The policeman told her, 'You weren't looking at a man outside the window. You were looking at his reflection. He was standing right behind you all along.'"

Just telling the story made goose bumps raise up on Sherlock's arms, and he scooted closer to John again and wrapped both of them around the other's body.

Just to maintain his pride, he told John, "I'll hold you, so you don't get scared. Even though I know you aren't a scaredy-dog."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, the scary stories were either told to us as kids or they came from Google links. Oh, and we don't own Treasure Island, either. Also I'd just like to say that this *is* a roleplay between myself and another gal, so there might be 'filler' scenes that seem boring to a reader but weren't boring to us, as the writers. Just a warning there ;)


	9. Chapter 9

John couldn't help but erupt into nervous giggles again at the end of Sherlock's story. Everything they were telling each other made shivers shoot up and down his spine and want to scoot in even closer. He was on the outside of the bed, and he very much decided he didn't want _that_.

When Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, he mimicked the action, squeezing Sherlock tight to his body and ducking his head right under his chin.

"Definitely not," he agreed. "Nothing scares me. Not ghosts or murderers or anything."

The fact that they were both, ultimately, clinging to each other said otherwise, but John decided to pretend otherwise.

"How did you know all of these stories?" he wanted to know. They were so close together that there was no need for talking loudly, but their voices came in hushed and hurried whispers, only occasionally raising whenever they got too excited. "I found mine in a book of scary stories."

 

As John spoke, Sherlock reached up and removed the pins from his hair so his ears would be free. He felt them stand upwards immediately, and he imagined that they were quite grateful for no longer being bent down uncomfortably.

Oh! And there was one more thing, too, wasn't there?

Sherlock hesitated for only a second before his hand slid down John's back, dipped into the waistband of his trousers, and gripped his tail. His fingers brushed against John's rear end, inevitably, but Sherlock just focused on holding on to the furry appendage so he could pull it out of John's pyjamas.

They were under the blankets, after all. Nobody would see. If his parents checked on them during the night, which they usually did, on Sherlock, it would be too dark for them to make out his ears, and his tail would be hidden beneath the blanket. It would be fine.

"I found mine in a book, too," Sherlock answered. He hummed softly as he thought of it. "I do still have the book, actually. I only read the first five. Then I...got bored of them."

He hadn't stopped reading because he was scared by them. Of _course_ that wasn't why.

"If I'm a police officer when I grow up--I really want to be a detective, and they're police officers, unless they're private detectives, I think--then I'll be one of the good guys. I'll go and solve mysteries. I'll be the one who finds wet footprints and a knife behind the sofa."

He grinned, smugly, as he thought of it. Then, another thought struck him. "When do your parents want you home tomorrow, do you think? It's too bad you can't stay all weekend. Or all week. I would like that. Do you think I can come to your house sometime? I want to see your room."

 

John paused for a moment to think about Sherlock’s question, and if he were honest, he had no idea. His mum hadn't said a time, unless she had called Mrs. Holmes at some point and had discussed a time for John to come home.

He hoped, rather outlandishly, that his mum had some sudden, important thing to do that required him to stay another night.

Unfortunately, he knew that wouldn't be the case.

"My house isn't very exciting," he said with a shrug. "I don't have a forest or books that would interest you. My room isn't very big, either, but it's got posters all over the walls. My bed is smaller, too.  And I have an annoying older sister, but I wouldn't let her bother you."

He stretched out a bit, arching his back just so when he felt Sherlock’s hand moving down his spine and down to his rear end. He giggled a little when he felt Sherlock’s hand glide over it, but it was replaced with a gentle hum with he felt him running his fingers through the fur of his tail.

It was like being pet, and it was one of the best feelings ever.

"I think you'll be a good detective," he decided. "And if not, you can be a bug person." He grinned a little bit. "Whatever those people are. People who do stuff with bugs."

 

Sherlock didn't mind if John's room wasn't big or exciting. Not really. All he cared about was that John would be there. He didn't need a forest or exciting books (although he certainly wouldn't have minded if John'd had them), because he was sure that he and John would be able to come up with something to do.

"Someone who studies bugs is called an entomologist," he said smartly. "At least, if they study insects. I don't know if there's a word for people who just study bugs. Someone who studies spiders...well, they're probably an arachnologist...or something like that. Because spiders are called arachnids."

Sherlock really did feel very intelligent, telling John all of that.

"Maybe you could be a vet," Sherlock suggested. "Although, that might not be good. Maybe you would growl at the other dogs, or at cats. That would give you away."

John had seemed to like his fingers moving through the fur on his tail, so Sherlock kept doing it. He pulled the appendage forward so it was resting against John's hip, and he gently brushed his fingertips over the soft fur.

It was the closest he could get to having a dog.

"We could work together, when we're grown-ups," he told John, smiling at the very idea of it. "I don't know why we couldn't. Nobody would be able to stop us. We'd be adults. We could even live together, too. I think I would like that. A lot."

Maybe they could even share a bed. Parents did it, so why couldn't they?

 

Perhaps it was just because of how young they were, but John barely thought twice over the fact that they already spoke about living together or working together one day. It would be perfect. They already got along so well, so why wouldn't they when they grew up?

"That would be fantastic," John said with a nod, then grinned against Sherlock’s chest. He tilted his head up so that he could look up at Sherlock, and his tail swished playfully against Sherlock’s hand.

"I don't know much about being a detective, but I can come with you and help keep the bad guys away. You might need it."

That sounded like a great job. Of course he didn't know what would change when he got older, or where his interests would take him, or even if he and Sherlock would stay friends long enough for that to happen. But for now, that was a good enough idea for John.

John closed his eyes and moved his head down more so that it were resting closer to Sherlock’s chest, where he could listen to his beating heart and the rise and fall that came from breathing.

"We can travel, too," he decided. "Maybe we'll travel all over the world."

 

When he felt John's head move to look up at his own face, Sherlock tilted his downwards, facing John better even though he couldn't see him at all.

He wished so badly that he could. He wanted to know exactly what John looked like. Touching his face helped, but it didn't satisfy his curiosity entirely. It didn't help him to see the exact shade of his hair, or if the inside of his ears were lighter or darker than the outside. It didn't let him see if John's tail matched his ears or his hair more. It didn't let him see the exact shade of John's skin or eyes.

It didn't let him see _anything_.

Even so, Sherlock was smarter than normal children, and that was his advantage. He could picture people better than others who were blind, just because his mind was quicker and more imaginative.

Would he have given up his brilliance in order to see?

...Well. Sherlock didn't know about that. What was the use in seeing if he was only normal? But then, what was the use in being brilliant if he was blind?

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's fur, lightly scratching his nails against the bone. He rested his cheek against John's head and sighed, thinking about him and John traveling all over the world.

"I would definitely need someone to help keep the bad guys away," he agreed. "You'd be great at that. Maybe we can even get you a gun. I don't know how we'd get one, or where, but don't you think it'd be useful?"

Sherlock knew it would be.

"Do you know who Andrei Chikatilo is? Well, was. He's dead now. He was a Russian serial killer. He also went by the Butcher of Rostov, the Red Ripper, and the Rostov Ripper. Those two are like Jack the Ripper, from Whitechapel. He killed at least fifty-six people. Women and children, I think."

 

John hadn't ever seen a gun in real life before, but he definitely thought it would be useful. All the good guys in the movies had them, didn't they? They didn't use them for bad, like the bad guys did, but always swooped in, last minute, to save someone, becoming something like a hero.

He really liked the idea of being a hero.

"I haven't heard of that person," John said with a shake of his head. "Mum doesn't let me watch things like that on telly because she thinks I'll get scared or something. I've heard of Jack the Ripper, though. I read a story about him once, only at the end, it was a girl who was the killer, but I don't think that's real."

It was so interesting to John that Sherlock knew all these strange things. Bugs and chemicals and killers. He was so delightfully strange, and while John had always wanted a friend to play with, he always thought him and a friend would play sports or wrestle around or something.

Which John _did_ like to do.

He pushed himself up on his hands and looked down at Sherlock, their little fort of comforters rising with him to create something like a tent.

He grinned playfully at him and his tail swished again.

"You're not going to become the bad guy, are you?" he asked with a smirk. "Knowing all these bad guys. I'll have to take _you_ into custody."

 

Sherlock felt the blankets lifting when John did. It was a good thing, too, because as much as he liked being under the blankets (especially with John), it was a bit stuffy. He lifted up the edge of the blanket, just so they could get a bit of fresh air into their tent, and then pulled his arm back to his body.

Would he ever become the bad guy? Sherlock couldn't say for sure. He wouldn't ever set out to be bad, but...what if he got really, _really_ bored? He knew he wouldn't ever kill anyone, but would he maybe steal something from somebody, just to entertain himself? Would he ever kidnap somebody?

No!

No, Sherlock knew right away that he didn't want to kidnap anybody, and he didn't even want to steal. The fact that he had even thought about it made him feel...uneasy. He didn't like to think about what he would do if he got bored enough, and instead decided to never allow himself to get to that point.

"I don't think you'll ever let me be the bad guy," he told John, even though he may have been trying to find reassurance for himself. "I would hate to go to jail. It's probably so boring there. And I think it'd be scary, to be in there with murderers. People are in gangs when they're in prison. And then the gangs fight."

Or so he'd read, anyway.

"Would you ever commit a crime, John? I don't think I would...but maybe if I had to. If someone was trying to hurt me, or you, I'd protect us. And if we needed food, I would steal some for us. Things like that. You wouldn't put me into custody for doing _that_ , would you?"

 

John chuckled a little bit and laid back down again. It was nice to have a bit of fresh, cool air, since they had been under the warm blankets for at least half an hour now. He shook his head and said, "Of course not. That's not bad guy stuff. Only if you're trying to hurt someone is it bad. I think, anyway. I don't know if I would ever do it, though. It would have to be really, really important."

John didn't ever want to go to jail or court or anything like that. He'd heard of innocent people being locked away for things they didn't commit and it sounded awful. John couldn't even imagine! What if someone were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or what if they didn't buy the 'protecting someone' case?

No, no. Best to just avoid that!

"That stuff only happens in the movies, anyway," he said with a shrug. "Well, except the traveling part. We'll definitely do that."

Sherlock's curtains were mostly drawn on his window, but a little sliver of moonlight was peeking through and casting a long strip on the bed, right between their bodies. Outside, there were big trees that gently swayed in the wind and cast funny-looking shadows around the room.

"If you find out why I'm like this, maybe we can also find some way to make you see again."

 

Sherlock wet his lips as he thought. It sounded too good to be true, finding a way to make him see again. He didn't even know if he would /really/ be able to find out why John was the way he was. He did know, though, that he was going to try as hard as he could.

John deserved to know, after all. It wasn't right for him to have to be a freak--which was the nicest word Sherlock could think to use, as well as being the most accurate--without even knowing /why/.

Sherlock yawned and stretched out his arms above him, lifting the blanket once more. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the blanket lower itself back down, lying flat against his face and body.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he told John. He reached out and scratched John's ear--nearly poking his eye in the process--and then rolled over onto his side. "Goodnight, John. You can wake me up, if you can't sleep."

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock usually didn't have any trouble falling asleep. He would just go through things he knew, such as the period table, verbs conjugated in French, or the bones of the human body. It helped him to remember them, and it helped him to fall asleep. Mycroft was the one who had suggested it.

As Sherlock's eyes fell shut, he had no idea that his parents were in their bedroom talking about him. He had no idea that they were trying to figure out what was so strange about the little boy their son had taken a liking to. Wilma wasn't blind (pun intended); she and Mycroft had both noticed that his ears weren't quite right. Still, was that enough of a reason to not let John play with him?

Maybe the fact that Sherlock went out into the woods with him--something he wouldn't have done if he'd been alone, not without his sight--was enough of a reason in and of itself.

Sherlock didn't know any of that was being discussed. All he knew was that he had never fallen asleep so quickly, or so soundly, as he did when he had John's warm body beside his own.

 

John nodded whenever Sherlock bade him goodnight, and he settled down right beside him, (pressed right against him, because at nine, he had very little sense of boundaries) and pulled the covers snug over his shoulders. Sherlock's back was to him, and it only made it that much easier for John to curl into him.

In Sherlock's room, dark and warm, it was easy for John to wish that he didn't ever have to go home, but that he could just sleep like this, every night.

He didn't quite understand that thought, or why it felt so natural, but he didn't care enough to think about it. With Sherlock no longer talking, it was easy for him to start feeling more and more drowsy, and before he knew it, he too was fast asleep.

He only woke up once, briefly, when he heard people outside the door walking back and forth, which he assumed were his parents making their morning coffee like his mum and dad did, but it was still fairly dark outside, and John only rolled back over and fell right back asleep.

Definitely not a murderer or a monster, but he still scooted close to Sherlock again before that.

When he finally did wake up, the sun was gently streaming in through the cracks in Sherlock's curtains. His eyes were lined with sleep and he was more than well-rested, but even so, he didn't jump right out of the bed, yet. He merely stretched his arms high over his head before arching his back with a contented sigh before looking sideways at Sherlock, who seemed to also be waking up.

He assumed either his mum would be coming to get him soon, or maybe Sherlock's parents would be taking him soon, and John was sad for that. His first sleepover had gone so fast. And now that he had a taste for it, he wanted it again.

"G'morning," John mumbled. "What are you going to do today?"

 

Sherlock was glad to see--hear, rather--that John was awake. It made his morning that much better, to not have to spend a few hours, or even just a few minutes, trying to entertain himself until the other boy woke up.

He yawned and stretched his arms and then his back, lifting his hips up off the mattress and grunting as his spine cracked. Before saying anything, or doing anything else, he reached over and put his hand on John's head, scratching at his furry ears, just like he would do if he had a real pet dog and he wanted to say 'good morning' to it.

"I don't think we're doing anything," he said, his voice hoarse from sleep. He could feel crust around his eyelids--his mother called it 'sleepy sand', which he'd always thought was more than a little silly--and he reached up to wipe it away.

"Sometimes Mother and Father go to church. They don't believe in anything, but they go just because they know people there and they want to see them. Oh, and sometimes they'll volunteer for things that the church is doing." Sherlock shrugged. "They don't make Mycroft and me go, so he sits and reads his books and I sit and..."

It was hard for Sherlock to know just yet what he did. He'd only been blind for a few weeks, and he hadn't yet worked out a concrete routine. After all, he'd only just got his cane last week, and he only had a few braille books. It wasn't as if he could go out and do things; even if he wasn't blind, he was still just a child.

He was limited, and he hated it.

Sherlock pushed the blankets off himself, realising for the first time how hot he was. His shirt was sticking to him, and the back of his neck felt sticky from sweat, as did his curls.

"You should put your clothes back on," he told John, as he got off the bed and walked over to his own closet. He felt around and got out a pair of dark trousers and a jumper. He stripped out of his pyjamas and then, after getting a pair of boxers, too, got dressed in his clothes for the day. "So my parents don't see your tail."

A tail! And _dog_ ears! It was hard for Sherlock to believe that he hadn't dreamt the whole thing.

Then again, he felt that way about John being there at all.

"I wish you could stay all weekend. Or maybe all week, even. Do you think your parents will let you come back? I hope so. I'm going to ask my parents tomorrow if you can come back...but we have school, so they'll probably say no...well, Friday night. I'll ask Friday night if you can come back, and maybe you can stay the whole weekend."

 

John crawled out of bed and stretched his arms high over his head, humming in pleasure at the feel of a really good stretch.

He didn't have a change of clothes with him, so he had to put on the same ones from the previous day, which had dried dirt on them in some places. He didn't mind. He was just going to change when he got home, anyway, even if his mum was likely to scold him for it.

"I would love that," he said with an eager nod, yanking his trousers on before sitting on the bed so he could put on his socks. "I don't know why they wouldn't let me come back over. And maybe the time after that, you can come over to my house."

Of course, with Christmas only a week away, maybe their parents were going to make them wait until after which seemed annoying and too long, but there wasn't much he could do about that, except hope that wouldn't be the case.

After making sure his tail was tucked comfortably into his trousers, (as much as it could be, anyway) and securing his ears in place, he followed Sherlock out of the room, where he could smell bacon and eggs and pancakes cooking from the kitchen.

"Does your mum always make breakfast?" he asked him. "Lucky. I usually just get cereal."

 

Sherlock’s mother did usually make breakfast, but he didn't tell John that. Hearing that he normally just ate cereal made Sherlock remember that they weren't very wealthy. Sherlock didn't care about that. Whether John had a lot of money or none at all, it just didn't matter to him. He liked John because he was fun, and because John liked him.

Not many people liked Sherlock, but John did.

Sherlock held onto John's sleeve for added support as the two of them walked to the kitchen. He knew where it was, of course, and if he didn't, the smell of breakfast would guide him to where he needed to go. He sat down at the table, gesturing to the chair beside him so John would know to sit there, just as he did last night.

"Good morning, you two," Thomas said as he swooped over them, setting down plates in front of each boy. "Sherlock, bacon's at two o'clock, pancakes at six, eggs at ten. Syrup's to your left, orange juice and milk on your right."

Sherlock wished he didn't have to hear where his food was. It was just--weird. It was strangely embarrassing that it was happening in front of John, even though he sincerely doubted that John thought it was weird. Still, picturing a clock was the best way that Sherlock and his parents could think of. Once the food was close to him, the smells became a bit muddled, and he would have ended up just stabbing at each area of his plate with his fork to figure out where everything was.

This was neater.

"After breakfast, we're going back into town," Wilma said, sitting down across from Sherlock. "Your father and I want to see the romantic comedy, with that Nicole Kidman. Do you boys want to see something? Or, we can drop John off before."

"We'll go," Sherlock said, not bothering to ask John first. He didn't think going to a movie would be fun for him (he didn't enjoy them in the first place, but especially now that he was _blind_ he wouldn't), but he wanted time with John all the same.

Most parents wouldn't let their young children go see films by themselves...but then, Sherlock knew his parents had never been normal.

 

John hadn't even entertained the possibility that he and Sherlock would go get to do something with Sherlock today; and a _movie_ , no less! John couldn't stop himself from smiling. Maybe they would make him call his mum and dad first to tell them, but that was okay. John didn't think they would say no; they'd let him come sleep over at someone's house, after all.

He took a big bite of his pancakes, and then followed it down with a drink of his milk.

Of course, then a thought occurred to John, and he furrowed his brows together. How could they go and see a movie if Sherlock couldn't see what was going on? Would it even be fun for him, sitting in a theater just listening? John almost felt bad for that fact, and he wondered if there was anything John could even do to make it more enjoyable for him.

He just had no idea what. He'd never known anyone who was blind before. He didn't know what it was like, or what they did for fun. John could easily go watch cartoons or a movie or play a sport or something. Sherlock just had... well, his mind to keep him occupied.

Maybe it wasn't his job to make sure that Sherlock was constantly okay, but John couldn't help it.

"Are you sure?" he asked him, setting down his fork. "I don't want you not to have a good time."

 

Sherlock knew exactly why John was asking him if he was sure about going to a movie. It was true that he wouldn't be able to see it, so whatever happened on the screen, he would have to just--imagine. Truth be told, it didn't sound very fun to him, but he was willing to sit through it if it meant he would get to spend even just a little more time with John. It wasn't much, but it would be better than nothing.

"I'm sure," he answered, nodding his head. "It will be fine. I have an imagination, remember? I'll be able to picture what's happening. And if nobody else is in there with us, you can tell me."

It wasn't likely that they would be in the cinema by themselves, not on a Saturday, but just in case. Sherlock liked the idea of it being just the two of them, so they wouldn't have to deal with any idiots making noise or talking during the film.

Sherlock cut into his pancakes and then poured a little syrup over them. At least, what he thought was them. It ended up going on the side of the plate, cascading down onto the tabletop. He only knew that because his father reached over and gently took his wrist, pushing his hand over his plate.

He hoped John hadn't seen it happen.

"Does your family have anything they like to do on weekends, John?" Wilma asked as she stirred some sugar into her coffee. She smiled at the other boy. "Thomas and I like to volunteer on Sundays, and sometimes we'll take Sherlock and his brother out to do something educational Saturday nights. It really just depends on our schedule. The neighbours always seem to be inviting us to this function or that."

 

John looked over at Mrs. Holmes when she addressed him. He chewed his pancake thoughtfully, occasionally casting an eye sideways at Sherlock to both see what he were doing and to make sure he didn't need anything from John.

It was only breakfast, though. No need to overdo it, probably.

"My dad works on the weekends sometimes," John said before taking another bite. "We don't go to church or anything though. Only when my aunt comes to visit because she's really strict. Mum complains about her a lot."

Other than that, they didn't go do volunteering or go to educational functions or things like that, (and John was glad for it because it sounded like a boring way to spend a weekend).

"Sometimes we'll rent movies at home. And my sister takes swimming lessons, so I go to her practice sometimes."

He shrugged a little bit and took another bite of his pancake.

"We don't do a lot I guess."

 

Sherlock didn't say it, of course, but he thought John's family did sound rather boring. Swimming lessons? If that was the most exciting thing they did, Sherlock was glad that he lived with his strange, affectionate parents.

And yes, even Mycroft. Mycroft didn't swim. Mycroft didn't do much of anything.

Sherlock's parents made small-talk for the next fifteen minutes, telling both boys about their friends' farm and the calf that their sole female cow had given birth to only a few nights ago. Sherlock had always wanted to watch a birth, just for his scientific curiosity, but he knew that wasn't likely to ever happen now.

Not unless there was a miraculous medical breakthrough.

Once they were finished eating, Wilma and Thomas stood up and cleared the table. They pulled tier coats on and helped Sherlock with his, then led the way out to the car, leaving Mycroft home alone. Sherlock knew he probably really enjoyed that.

Once they were on the way to the cinema, Wilma offered John a section of the paper she had picked up off the front step of the house.

"Why don't you look at what movies are playing? I'm sure you two can agree on something."

 

John accepted the paper from Sherlock's mum, but it felt strange in his hands. He had never done any of this before. Looking in the paper for movies, riding with parents who did 'functions' and the like... It wasn't a world John was used to, and he felt remarkably  out of place in it.

He opened the paper on his lap and looked at where there was the movie listings.

They all were things John hadn't ever heard of before, and by the sound of them, they were probably adult-like movies that wouldn't be of any interest to them.

"What sorts of movies do you like? he asked Sherlock, turning his head to speak in the other boy's direction. "I don't know any of these... There's a boxing movie out, called 'Creed'. And there's one called 'Mockingjay', I saw a preview for that one, and I think it's about a girl who shoots a bow and arrow... Uhm... 'Alvin and the Chipmunks'... Do any of those sound familiar?"

He supposed since Sherlock wasn't even going to be able to see it, he should at least be able to pick the one that sounded fairly interesting. Otherwise it wouldn't really be fair, would it? In fact, John thought all of this sounded a bit unfair. How come Sherlock's mum and dad didn't offer to take him somewhere where Sherlock could actually enjoy  himself and do more than sit in a dark theater and just listen?

It didn't make much sense to John.

 

None of the movies sounded familiar to Sherlock, but what was worse, none of them sounded _good_. He wasn't keen on films in the first place. He knew John probably thought it was weird that his parents were even having them go to one in the first place, considering he couldn't see; he could hear the reluctance and uncertainty in John's voice when he talked about the movies that were playing.

It was nothing new to Sherlock. His parents were--odd, that way. On one hand, they were very involved, caring, loving parents, but on the other, they were a bit selfish. They did the things they wanted to do and assumed their children were independent and mature enough to take care of themselves in the process.

Which, Sherlock and Mycroft would both agree that they were.

As he was thinking about the films, he got an idea--a better one. Instead of sitting and watching a movie, they could go somewhere. They could walk into the theater and then leave, walk around and visit the shops, or John could tell him about all the people who were walking by. They didn't have to sit through a _movie_.

Sherlock liked his idea much, much more than he liked the thought of sitting and listening to a film that he couldn't even see.

"Any of those would be fine," he lied, and he turned his head to look at John, winking one of his cloudy eyes. He couldn't tell him now; his parents would know he was whispering and, given Sherlock's mischievous nature, they would assume that he was doing something he wasn't supposed to do.

Getting separated from his mother, getting lost in the woods--ha! Those were in the past, and Sherlock had moved past them. He wasn't afraid of going off, alone, with John.

Sherlock turned his head and looked out the window. He could imagine the houses they were driving past, which probably had Christmas lights and decorations put up. Even though he didn't care about the holiday (besides getting presents), he wished he could see them all the same.

 

John couldn't help it. When he saw Sherlock wink at him, a thrill went through him. Instantly he felt giddy, and he had to stop himself from smiling too much and giving them away, but he couldn't help it.

Sherlock was, without a doubt, the _coolest_ person he had ever met. And while he didn't know exactly what Sherlock was thinking, he knew it must have been good. He could all but hear the boy's mind turning.

He wished he could explain why he felt so...drawn to Sherlock. Yes, he was smart, and sure he did neat things, but certainly there were lots of people who are, and it didn't make John any more inclined to be their friend to such an extreme degree.

Strange.

The car ride didn't take much longer, and after ten minutes or so of listening to the Christmas music Sherlock’s mum and dad has playing on the radio, they arrived.

John got out of the car before walking over to Sherlock’s side and waiting for him to get out, too, before he took his hand.

"The boxing movie, right?" John asked Sherlock, when the other boy's father asked them what they had decided on. "I bet that one will be the coolest."

 

As far as films went, Sherlock agreed with John. The boxing movie did sound like it would be the best. That being said, he was glad he didn't actually intend to go.

He wasn't sure what they could do, but he was confident that John would come up with something fun for them. The park wasn't far from the cinema, and there were also a few shops. Even the library was within walking distance!

Sherlock felt himself being pulled through the parking lot. He knew right when they stepped into the cinema because he could smell the buttery popcorn, a scent that could /only/ be found there.

Thomas bought their tickets and gave one to each of the boys.

"Yours is right there, number four," Wilma said as they walked to their theaters. "Our movie's two and a half hours long, so we'll meet you in the lobby when we're finished." Sherlock felt his father ruffle his hair, and then the two adults slipped into their theater.

Sheesh. They really _weren't_ responsible parents.

Quickly, Sherlock pulled on John's hand.

"Come on! Where are we going? The library? The museum? Do you think we could go to the museum? We don't want anyone to know we aren't with any adults...we'll get in trouble. Maybe we could find another toy store. Oh! We could go to the pet store. I used to like looking at the lizards and turtles."

Now, he would have to rely on John to tell him all about it--whatever it was that they ended up doing.

 

John curled his fingers around Sherlock's hand and began to run with him. Not so obvious that the adults standing around them would be suspicious, but quickly enough to make sure they wouldn't be caught not going into their theatre.

John almost felt a bit guilty, knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had paid money for their tickets and they weren't going to see it, (and disobeying them in the process) but... so long as they got back before the movie ended, there wouldn't be any harm.

"Let's go to the pet store," John said. "You said you wished you had your own dog, right? Maybe we can play with them. Oh, and the reptiles. Do you think your mum would let you have one for Christmas?"

John led the way through the little strip mall, weaving in and out of the Christmas shoppers with Sherlock in tow. He made sure to note some of the stores they passed, just so he wouldn't accidentally get them lost again.

"You should ask your mum for a phone," he decided, looking back at Sherlock. "I don't think _my_ mum will let me have one, but maybe if I tell her my best friend has one, she'll let me, too."

 

Sherlock thought John's idea was excellent. What if he could get a phone? He and John would be able to talk whenever they wanted to, not just after their parents were asleep, right?

That was how it seemed in Sherlock's mind. He was only a child though, and ignorant to the fact that parents could put parental controls on such devices, limiting how much their children could talk or text, and even limiting when they could do so. Still, Sherlock wouldn't have minded. Anything would be better than nothing at all.

Sherlock could hear pieces of the conversations of those they walked by. People were talking about Christmas, mostly, and complaining about visiting family members or how expensive the gifts were. Sherlock wished he could get John something good, but he wouldn't have the opportunity, especially with John being right here with him.

"I'll probably get a phone," he told the other boy. "Because I'm blind, and my parents don't want me to be without a way to get a hold of them if I need to. You would be the only other person I would call, besides them."

There was nobody else that Sherlock could even imagine talking to, about anything, besides John.

He knew when they entered the pet store because he could smell the animals and hear them. Dogs were barking; cats were meowing and hissing, birds were shrieking. It made Sherlock wonder how John was going to react to being around all these... _other_ animals (not that John _was_ one), but then, Sherlock assumed he'd been in a similar position before.

"I would like a lizard for Christmas," Sherlock said, smirking as he walked towards where he knew they were housed. I like the frilled lizard. It looks scary. I don't think you can keep them as a pet, though. Do you like fish? I think they're boring, but some of them look interesting. Have you ever seen a lobster? Those are neat. I heard they're in the same family as bugs. I don't know why adults like eating them so much, if they're just bugs. Have you ever tried it?"

He didn't mean to talk so much, or to ask so many questions. With John, it just--happened.

 

John didn't mind Sherlock's talking; in fact, he found that he was talking much more around the other boy as well. John was a happy kid, and he wasn't brooding by any means, but sometimes he could be more on the quiet side, if just because he didn't always have many people to talk to.

"I don't really like fish," he admitted. "They just sort of...swim around. They look sort of cool sometimes, though. I like sharks, now _those_ are cool. I went to the aquarium once and saw them up close. Would you ever swim with one? I've seen people do that, but they're in these big cages."

John looked around the store, as if only just realizing where they were. Being around all the animals didn't bother him, necessarily, but rather piqued his interest, (as any good dog might, he supposed). Every time a bird squawked or a dog barked, John's head would whip around to get a good look at it, and he would have to stop himself from racing right over to see.

He hoped that when he got older, he would have all that better under control.

"Oh, Sherlock, look," John exclaimed, and he gently pulled Sherlock towards the back, where there was a man holding a rather large snake around his neck.

"Would you like to touch her?" the man, grey-haired and balding said when the two boys approached. "Her name is Cynthia, and she loves company!"

John very much doubted that, but he still chuckled a little anyway.

"You first," he said, somewhat nervous, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "It's--erm... Twelve o'clock? It's right in front of you."

 

Sherlock didn't even know what it was that he was meant to touch. A female, obviously, by the name of Cynthia, but that didn't help at all. Still, he liked the fact that it was a mystery. Something about not knowing what he was reaching out towards served to make it even more exciting.

So he did. He slowly extended his hand, until his fingers came into contact with firm, textured scales. He trailed his fingertips over the animal (which was obviously a snake) and only pulled away (with a soft gasp) when he felt her fast tongue flicking against his hand.

"She's an albino Burmese," the man explained, crouching down a little lower so both boys could reach her more easily. "I've had her going on ten years. She's probably got another forty left. I keep tellin' her she's gonna outlive me. Dunno what she's going to do when I'm gone, though. The missus won't want to share the house with her, not without me there."

Sherlock wanted to hold her. He wanted to feel how heavy and how long she was, but of course he also just--didn't want to be eaten. He didn't think it would happen, but without his sight, he wouldn't be able to run away very well. He would have to rely on John to protect him, and while he did trust John, there was still hesitance.

There was nothing wrong with being a little cautious from time to time, was there?

"They live in Africa and Asia, John," Sherlock said smartly. "When we travel the world, maybe we can find some. I would like to see their eggs. Oh, and I want to watch one eat."

He frowned, then, knowing that he wouldn't actually be able to _see_ or _watch_ either of those things.

"You will have to describe both to me."

 

John watched Sherlock as he spoke, watched the way his mouth turned into a little smirk and his eyebrows lift smartly as he relayed this new information to John.

And he saw the way his face dropped when he realization hit him that he wouldn't get to see any of that.

At least not first-hand.

It made John ache in a way that he couldn't quite understand, but he only touched the small of his back gently and smiled at him. 

"I'll explain it the best way I can," he told him. "And who knows, maybe I'll do something really smart, like be an eye surgeon or something, and I can find a cure for your eyes."

John didn't know the first thing about eyes or being an eye doctor, but who knew? He had his whole life ahead of him to learn.

John reached out to touch the snake again, and its tongue licked at John's hand immediately. He chuckled and pulled it away quickly.

"She's givin' you kisses," the man said with a wink down at John. "Means she likes ya."

John wasn't so young that he completely believed that, (since all animals licked) but he giggled again anyway before pulling on Sherlock’s hand.

"Would you ever let a spider crawl on you?" he asked him. "Like a big one, not a small one that are in the back yard and stuff. There's one called the Bird Eating Spider and it's bigger than my whole hand. Would you let it crawl on you?"

 

Sherlock didn't need to think long at all about John's question, because he already had his answer.

"Yes."

Of course he would let a spider crawl on him, even a big one! More than letting it, Sherlock would _welcome_ it. He would love the opportunity to feel its hairy legs on him. He wanted to know if their fur was soft like John's or wiry and coarse; he wanted to know if the bottoms of their feet were soft or sharp.

And he wanted to know if it would bite him. He assumed that it wouldn't, but there was a sort of exciting thrill about not knowing that for sure.

As Sherlock was walking towards the reptiles and other exotic animals, he heard a loud meowing directly to his left. He paused and turned, extending his hand so he could feel the cage right in front of him, and then slipped his fingers through the bars. He felt a rough tongue lap at them and then silky fur brushing over his fingertips as the cat side-stepped, trying to get as much contact from the boy as it could.

"I don't really like cats," Sherlock told John, just in case the other boy was getting an idea about him that wasn't true, "but this one might be okay.”

Sherlock wasn't lying. He really didn't like cats. And yet, this one seemed nice enough. It was large, he could tell that much, so not a kitten. Maybe it was an old one, old and unwanted because of its age.

The thought made Sherlock's heart sink, just a little.

He pulled his hand away from the cage. Best to stop thinking about it now, before he got carried away.

"The lizards are right there, behind the glass, I think. Do you see any chameleons? I liked the bearded dragons. The babies look /nothing/ like the adults. Do they have babies?"

 

The cat that Sherlock had been petting was, to John's knowledge, old. The name plate said 'Peter', and he was orange with white stripes, with just a little bit of grey around the mouth. John had watched Sherlock touch the cat, and in return, the cat had immediately stood up to lap at his fingers with his little tongue, even going as far as slipping its paw out between the bars.

John hoped he would find a home soon, because the idea of a cage was... unpleasant to him, suddenly.

Strangely so.

There was a strange anxiety that settled in his stomach at the thought of one, and while he didn't know where it came from, he knew he wanted to stop thinking about it immediately.

So he followed Sherlock over to where the lizards were before clearing his throat.

"Over here," he said, pulling on Sherlock's arm gently. "There's just one, and it’s on the mum's back. Well, I think it's the mum anyway. I heard the dad seahorses carry the babies, but I don't know about chameleons."

The one in question was standing on a tree branch, blinking its eyes slowly. Occasionally its tongue would shoot out like one of those toys that John didn't know the name of, but that he used to blow into and the paper would roll out.

"Maybe you should ask your mum and dad if you can have one. That's what you should get for Christmas. A phone and a chameleon. Or maybe a snake, like Cynthia. Do you think they let people keep those as pets?"

 

Sherlock wanted to see the lizard on the other lizard's back, possibly more than he had ever wanted to see anything else in his life.

Well, besides John. If he could only see one thing, he would want to see John, even if it was only for a second.

"I think they've already finished all their shopping," Sherlock said, frowning. He knew his mother wouldn't like the idea of going out and looking for anything else, not this close to Christmas, not when the stores were this crowded. The pet store was packed. Sherlock could hear everyone around him and he felt people walking past him, brushing up against them. He could smell their perfume or cologne, their breath, their body odour--none of it was pleasant.

Especially because there was just so much.

"I hope they let me get a phone," Sherlock told John, feeling for his hand again and taking it in his own. He would give up getting a pet if it meant he could have a phone. Talking to John would be better than having a lizard to play with and observe, even though that would be something that Sherlock would enjoy.

"I think they let people keep snakes, but I don't think lots of people do. I've heard snakes aren't very fun, but that's probably because whoever had it just wanted something they could play with or sleep with. Snakes aren't like cats and dogs; they aren't affectionate and I don't think they actually play games. But they're still cool."

It wouldn't be a difficult choice for Sherlock, if he was given the option to choose between a lizard or snake, or a dog. He would easily pick the dog. He wanted something that he could study and play with, and even--talk to.

He didn't tell anyone, but sometimes he did feel a little lonely, and his parents and Mycroft just didn't help with that.

"Do you want to look at anything else?" Sherlock asked. "If not, we can go to the Asian grocery. They have all sorts of neat foods. I've even seen eyeballs there, once. And they have ducks hanging in the window, and live lobsters in a tank."

 

John wasn't going to admit it, but the idea of a duck hanging in a window made his mouth water.

Just a bit.

He'd never even had duck before, but maybe there was just some...instinct he had. He wasn't entirely certain, but he wasn't going to go admitting that. Despite his young age, he was at least slightly aware that he was different and he didn't want Sherlock getting the impression he was beyond 'cool' weird, and just plain freakish.

Or maybe Sherlock would like that about him, too. It was still too early in their friendship to know for certain.

"Come on," he said, threading their fingers together and leading Sherlock out of the pet shop. "Oh! What if...do you have any money? Probably not, right? We could have bought a bunch of weird foods and eaten them. Or, do they sell the eyes to eat? Actually, I don't know if I would want to eat an eyeball. But I love Chinese food, so it's got to be good, right?"

John assumed as much, anyway.

He led Sherlock back out of the store and headed in the direction of the little market. If the adults around them took any notice of the two little boys walking hand in hand, unaccompanied by adults, nobody stopped and questioned them.

"Your brother is really quiet," he said to Sherlock, turning to look at him. "I wish my sister were that quiet. She never shuts up. But she's okay sometimes."

 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and got out his little wallet. It was leather, a gift from his father, and containing a single tenner. They couldn't get very much with it, but Sherlock was more than willing to let them spend it on something fun for them to try eating.

Something gross.

Sherlock nodded his head as John noted that Mycroft was quiet. He was right; he was. Sherlock was glad he was. If Mycroft talked a lot, Sherlock would like him even less than he already did. He couldn't imagine always having to listen to smug, know-it-all Mycroft going on and on about how stupid Sherlock was and how he didn't know as much as he did.

"I'm glad he doesn't talk very much. If he talked all the time, it would really annoy me. Your sister sounds like she's annoying...sorry."

Sherlock wasn't really sorry. If he'd been sorry, he would never have said it in the first place. He just didn't want John to get his feelings hurt because of something he'd said about the boy's sister.

They were close to the shop. Fifty feet...thirty...ten...and, there. Sherlock paused, squeezing John's hand as he turned to the left and felt around for the door. If he remembered correctly, it was right around--aha!

He pressed on the metal bar, pushing the door open and stepping inside. The intermingled smell of garlic, onions, fish, and spicy peppers wafted around them, letting Sherlock know that he had the right place.

"My favourite section is the fish," Sherlock said, pointing to the right. "I think they're back that way, unless they moved them. I even saw starfish here once. And jellyfish. Whole ones!"

And to think, people actually ate those things!

"What does your sister do? She's in school? Homeschooled?"

 

"Harry goes to regular school," John explained with a little shrug as he and Sherlock walked in the direction of the fish. "I'm homeschooled because...well, you know. Mum said that when I get older I'll be able to go to a regular school, but she says not until secondary school."

John sighed a little and shrugged again. "I wish I could, though. Maybe then I would make friends."

That was what John wanted. To make friends. To play sports with other kids, to run around, to get invited to more sleepovers.

Of course, now that Sherlock had invited him to one, he wouldn't mind doing it a bunch more times with him.

John never once let go of Sherlock's hand, even if would have been easier for them to navigate the crowds without doing so. He pulled him over to the fish tank and pressed his free hand up against the tank, where there was a starfish suctioned to the glass.

"There's one here!" he exclaimed, pointing his finger at it. "It's pink. Oh, and there are lobsters in the tank, too!"

There were many lobsters, actually, and all of them were unmoving, but sitting atop on another, in a weird little pile.

John didn't think they should buy a lobster, though. He had no idea how to cook one.

"What should we eat?" John asked. "You name it, and I'll go find it and get it."

 

It was understandable why John's parents would let Harry go to a normal school, but it was still unfair. He didn't want John to be stuck at home while Harry was allowed to go out and do whatever she wanted, just because she didn't have a dog's tail and ears. Of course he understood why his parents kept him closed off from the world...but he didn't like it. He didn't like that John had to live that way.

Besides, if they were going to let him go to a normal school for secondary school, anyway, why not just let him go now?

Sherlock pressed his hand to the glass in front of him. He wished that he could see, but he had to use his imagination, picturing the biggest, prettiest pink starfish that anyone had ever seen.

And the ugliest, creepiest lobsters, just for balance.

"Do they have any sushi?" Sherlock asked, looking around the store even though he, obviously, could see nothing around them. "It's raw fish. And rice. And seaweed. And there's supposed to be some sort of spicy sauce. Wasabi? I think that's what it's called. I've never had it before, because my mother told me I was too young to eat raw fish. I don't think that's true."

Why would it be true? Why could adults eat something but little boys couldn't? They weren't babies. They were allowed to eat anything that adults were. Even coffee, or really hot foods, or rich desserts.

"You aren't afraid of eating raw fish, are you?" Sherlock waved his hand, shaking his head. "No, I know you aren't. Ten dollars should be more than enough for two pieces of it. Go and find us some." He smirked. "Fetch."

 

John hadn't ever had sushi before, and it sounded gross, if he were being honest, but they decided to get the weirdest stuff for a reason, so he only returned Sherlock's smirk, took the tenner from him, and told him, "Stay here, okay? Don't want you going and getting lost again, hm? Since you seem to like doing that."

He squeezed his hand briefly to show he was only kidding before letting go, and turning to make his way through the crowd. There was a sushi stand just a little ways away, and there was no line, so John went right up to the stand, where an Asian man in a funny looking hat was chopping up fish, and set the note down.

"I'll have two...sushi, please," John asked, lifting his head a bit so that he could see over the counter. He realized he had no idea how to order sushi, but surely that was the way to do it?

The man gave him a funny look and said something that John couldn't understand in the slightest given his thick accent, so he repeated himself.

"Um, two...sushi, please."

The man was giving John an annoyed look before he pointed to a case sitting on some ice, and because John was nervous, he nodded his head 'yes', and quickly took it when the man set down his change.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said when he approached the boy again. He took his hand once more. "Let's go find a place to sit down."

 

Sherlock could hear John ordering their sushi, and it made him grin. The boy was speaking softly, obviously uncertain as to how he should actually order, and it reminded Sherlock that he probably should have been a little more specific when telling John what to get.

He could picture them all now, in his head. Many were wrapped in seaweed and had streaks of orange and green in the center of them, coiled around in rice, while the others were just little hunks of rice with fish lying right on top of it. Others had little red balls wrapped in seaweed--fish eggs, maybe?

Sherlock had no idea, and that was why he was looking forward to it. It wasn't enlightening in the least, and it certainly didn't take any sort of intelligence to eat a piece of sushi, but he was a little boy and he was getting to try something that was new (and that he wasn't actually allowed to do), so of course he was excited.

Sherlock walked alongside John until they stopped and John guided him back to a bench. Sherlock sat down on it and then took one of the sushi pieces, feeling the tough seaweed wrapped around the outside and the sticky rice contained within.

"Count of three," he told John. "One, two, three."

He opened his mouth wide and put the entire thing into it. He didn't know if that was the proper way to eat sushi, but it wasn't that big, so he assumed it was meant to be a one-bite dish.

He hadn't even started chewing before he cringed.

He couldn't decide if it was the texture or the actual taste, but there was something about it that put him off immediately. The seaweed tasted like nasty, old grass; the fish inside of it was so strong that he thought he would gag from it, and the rice--

Well. The rice was tolerable.

"I don't like it," he mumbled around the piece, his nose crinkled and eyes clenched shut. "I don't like it at all."

 

John put his sushi in his mouth at the exact same time Sherlock did, and like the other boy, had a very similar reaction.

John liked fish, when it was cooked or steamed, but this was just... gross.

He scrunched up his nose as he chewed, looking at Sherlock as the other boy did the same, as though they were both sharing the reaction together in their eyes.

"Me either," he said, just barely getting the piece down. "How do people eat this stuff? That would never fill me up! I'll take a hamburger any day. Bleh."

His tail swished in an unpleasant motion in his trousers, (or attempted to anyway, given the restraints).

"Here, maybe it will be better with this..."

He reached in the tray and used his forefinger to scoop up a large portion of the green blob on the tray, (maybe this was what this wasabi thing was) and put it directly into his mouth.

And immediately he regretted it.

His mouth felt like it were on fire, and he made a startled noise that was similar to a whine before jumping up from the bench and spitting it out.

"You didn't tell me that stuff was hot!" he exclaimed. "This is the worst meal of my life! How do Asian people do this?"

 

Sherlock knew he would have to eat several pieces of sushi to get full, but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to eat several pieces. Oh, it was disgusting! It was like nothing he had ever eaten before, but he knew that he would never want to again. Once was more than enough.

He looked over at John when he whined, noticing immediately that it sounded like a noise a dog would make. He hoped nobody else had heard it, because there was a chance that they would ask questions.

Even though Sherlock didn't like that John was in pain from eating the wasabi, he couldn't help himself. He laughed. He brought his hand up to cover his mouth, but the sound was still audible, soft giggles from behind his fingers as he pictured John's face, scrunched up in pain, sweating.

"I didn't know you were going to eat it!" he defended himself. "You should have asked first! I would have told you not to eat it...maybe."

Maybe not.

Sherlock stood up and took John's hand again. He had to feel around for it for a little bit, but it was easy to find and then he tugged on it.

"Come on. I'm here all the time; you rarely get to visit London. Is there anything you want to see?"

Sherlock wasn't normally so unselfish, but with John, it seemed to just come naturally to him. He wanted to have a good time himself, of course, but he also wanted John to have fun.

"Maybe we should go and get a milkshake. I've heard milk helps after you eat spicy foods. There's an ice cream shop around here somewhere. Back where we came from, I think."

 

“Anything is better than /this/," John said, taking the container that contained the rest of the sushi in it and tossing it in a nearby bin.

Good riddance.

"Come on, you," he said. "I should make them give you a wasabi milkshake for that. In fact, maybe I will!"

He grinned a little as he spoke. That would be awful. He could picture it, green and lumpy going up through the straw. Cold, but hot all at once.

That would be a good prank, come to think of it. Maybe someday!

John did want to go see certain things, like maybe the aquarium or the natural history museum and see all the dinosaurs, but... maybe another time. It didn't feel right, dragging Sherlock along to things he couldn't see, just to try and explain them to him. John wouldn't have fun doing that, so why would Sherlock?

No, no. Surely they could find something more hands on.

"It's too cold for a milkshake," he eventually decided. "But do you know what I want instead? Some hot chocolate."

John said that in particular because just a few feet away was a man standing, bundled up, in front of a hot chocolate stand, where he was selling it for one pound, (or so said the sign).

"Oh! Do you like to ice skate? I've never done that before."

 

Sherlock felt like a real adult, being out and alone with John. They didn't need any adults with them. They were both smart. Well, Sherlock was brilliant and John was smart, but John could also see, so he made up for Sherlock's slacking in that area.

John didn't know that milk--not hot chocolate--contained casein, which would bind with the capsaicin in the wasabi and make his mouth cool down, but that was fine. If John didn't think he needed it, then they could go along with something else.

He shook his head at John's question and let John lead him towards the hot chocolate. He had never been ice skating before, which, of course, made him want to try it. It wasn't that he actually wanted to skate; he didn't care about that (besides, he thought ice skating looked like it was for girls, anyway), but it was something new.

"They might have skates available to rent," he told John. There was a small rink right in the middle of the plaza, man-made for the holidays.

"We can share a hot chocolate and then--how much was the sushi? Maybe we'll have enough to rent a pair or two. We can take turns wearing them. One of us can walk and the other can wear the skates."

It made perfect sense to Sherlock. He and John were about the same size, so he assumed they could do with only one pair of skates between them both.

He hadn't been keeping very good track of how long they had been away from the cinema, but he wasn't really thinking about it, either. All he wanted to do was have a good time with John, not worry about getting in trouble. Once they took John home, Sherlock didn't know how long it would be before he got to see him again, and he much preferred them being together to talking on the phone.

"You can wear them first. You'll just have to tell me what direction you want to go in, and I'll help you get there."

 

John led Sherlock to the ice rink, completely unaware that the time they were spending away from the cinema was slipping away. He never considered the possibility that they would be caught, or Sherlock's parents would be upset if they knew the children had gone off exploring without them.

To John, he didn't really care enough to think about any of that. He was much more interested in Sherlock and finding ways they could spend together before John had to go home.

And who knew when they would see each other again!

"We can't take turns," John said with a frown. "I don't know how to skate yet, so I need you there to skate with me."

Of course, they didn't have much more money with them, and surely it would cost more per pair, but John would have to figure something else out.

"You'll just have to come out on the ice with me," he decided. "You can wear the skates, and since I have on trainers, I'll just go out on the ice like this."

Easy enough.

When they reached the rink, John took out the five pound note from his pocket and led Sherlock up to the counter, where a man standing behind the desk was handing out pairs of skates.

The hot chocolate would just have to wait for another time, he supposed. He could live with that. Skating seemed much more exciting than hot chocolate.

"What size do you wear?" John asked Sherlock. "Your feet are only a little smaller than mine."

 

"I wear a six," Sherlock answered, wetting his lips as he listened for the sounds of people skating. They were hard to miss--people were laughing, gasping, and Sherlock could hear the unmistakable sound of skates scraping along the ice, and the thudding of bodies when the people fell down.

It did all sound rather fun. Sherlock didn't even mind if he fell once or twice (anything more would get on his nerves) because that seemed to be a part of the process.

"Here, son," Sherlock heard the man behind the counter say, and he reached up his hand to take the pair of skates that were being offered to him. They were heavy in his hands and he couldn't resist tracing his finger over the blades.

After feeling his way along the wall, Sherlock sat down on a bench and took off his own shoes, then slipped on the skates. He put the left one on his right foot and his right on his left, so then he had to take them off and switch them around. Once he had them laced up snugly, he stood up and took a few awkward, shaky steps.

He reached out and wrapped his fingers into the fabric of John's jacket immediately.

It was only a few more steps to get on the ice. There was a border all around the length of it, and a railing, so Sherlock kept one hand firmly gripping it while the other remained on John's coat sleeve.

"Slow," he told John, trying to resist the urge to take a step and instead letting his leg push out in front of him so the skate slid across the ice beneath. "What time is it, anyway? We need to make sure we aren't gone too long. My parents would be so cross with me, if they knew we were out doing this."

 

"Don't worry," John answered immediately, taking both of Sherlock's hands as they began to step onto the ice. He smirked at him, as though Sherlock could actually see him. "I won't let you get into any trouble. Don't you trust me?"

Even if it had been Sherlock's idea in the first place, John felt that he was rather...taking care of Sherlock, during their little adventure. That was his job, after all, wasn't it? To take care of him? And while it was entirely possible they would get caught, John was determined not to let that happen.

"It's only been like an hour, anyway. I think we've still got a little bit more time."

When they got on the ice, John squeezed Sherlock's hands a bit tighter, feeling his own unsteady feet begin to slide on the slick, cold ice. It was much colder on the rink than it had been outside because of the extra cold air keeping the rink frozen, and the gust of air that flew past them as people skated by made it feel even colder.

"There's so many people here," he told Sherlock. "I wish we had a private rink. Maybe someday, huh?"

He put one hand out on the wall so he could steady himself before slowly pushing himself, (thus pulling Sherlock) forward. Together they began to slowly glide around the edge of the rink and John couldn't help but chuckle.

"I look so stupid out here," he said. "Everyone is wearing skates. You're taller than me, now, with those things on. But don't get used to it. I'm the tall one."

It was certainly hard, but eventually John began to find a comfortable pace to set, and he (more accidentally slid than planned) with Sherlock in tow.

 

Sherlock did trust John, which was strange because he had only known the other boy for a few days. Even so, he trusted John to guide him, to lead him around, to tell him the truth regarding everything that was around them.

John had proven himself reliable in every event thus far, and Sherlock saw no reason to stop trusting him. Besides, even if he suddenly did see a reason, that didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock would be able to.

Holding on to both of John's hands, Sherlock felt a bit safer and more confident in sliding along the ice. It was strange that he trusted John more than he did the railing beside the rink, but it was a fact nonetheless. He wasn't at all getting the hang of skating, but he wasn't afraid, either. John wouldn't let him fall.

"I'm sure you look fine out here," Sherlock said, grinning at John. Down at John, actually, as he was, apparently, the taller one between the two of them. "Besides, people know you're with me. I've got my sunglasses on, so it's okay. Everyone knows I'm blind. People will just think you're nice for helping out the blind boy."

It was true. John was nice for doing so.

As they circled around, Sherlock heard a boy and girl skate past them. The boy was speaking and his voice cracked, either because he was ill or because he was going through puberty. Sherlock assumed the later.

"What if you grow fur when you go through puberty?" he asked, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "Because males get hairier. What if you get _furry_?"

Sherlock didn't know if he was intrigued by the idea, or disgusted by it. It would be cool, if it happened, but he would feel bad for John if he didn't want fur.

And really, who in their right mind would?

 


	11. Chapter 11

Growing _fur_?

The idea had never even crossed John’s mind. He didn't really think much about puberty or things like that, but he just assumed he would get taller and his voice would get deeper. Wasn't that all that was supposed to happen to boys? He couldn't imagine anything else. He certainly wasn't interested in girls yet, or anything that teenagers were into. He just liked playing pretend and having fun.

But the thought made him quickly glance down at his coat-covered arm and he frowned.

"I hope I don't get furry," he said. "That would be weird, wouldn't it? If my whole face and chest and arms and legs had fur on them... No, no, I would hate that. If I grew fur, I would shave everything off. Except maybe in the winter, because then I wouldn't be cold, would I?"

He grinned a little bit before using the hand on the rail to push them forward a bit harder, a bit faster.

"But you have to promise you'll still be my friend, even if I do, okay? Because I don't want you to not like me anymore."

The thought was strangely unpleasant.

He looked back at the other boy, in his glasses and his wild, curly dark hair and his posh clothes. Unfortunately it caused him to not pay attention to where he was going, because he managed to somehow slip and fall, right on his bottom, accidentally yanking Sherlock down with him. He landed with an 'oof' because of the hard ice, but also because Sherlock landed directly on top of him.

Even so, John found himself laughing a little.

Between the gross sushi, the pet store, and the ice skating, their little adventure had been exceptionally strange, but John wouldn't have had it any other way.

"I'm glad I met you," he told Sherlock. "Captain."

 

It was easy for Sherlock to tell just how much John hated the idea of growing fur when he entered into puberty. Sherlock could understand that. If he suddenly looked more like a wolf than a human, he wasn't so sure that he would like it, either.

That being said, Sherlock didn't find it hard to believe that John _would_ grow fur. Of course he didn't know what he was really like, with canine DNA in his body, but he saw no reason to rule anything out just yet.

Sherlock was glad that John's parents hadn't gotten rid of him. However he ended up being like he was, whether they had known about it or allowed it or what, it would have been horrible if they had stopped taking care of them because of it.

Just like it would be horrible if Sherlock stopped being his friend because of it.

"I won't stop being your friend," he promised. "Even if you turned into a real dog I wouldn't stop."

Sherlock meant what he said, but he still hoped that that would never happen. He liked dogs, but he liked John as a boy.

Sherlock nearly started in surprise when they suddenly fell, but then he found himself laughing along with John. They had actually gone without falling longer than Sherlock had thought they would!

He moved into a sitting position, grinning as he looked in John's direction.

"I'm glad I met you too, John. Are you sure you don't want to take a turn wearing the skates? We can trade shoes."

 

John got up from the ice, brushing his backside off and holding out his hand to pull Sherlock up as well.

"Sure," he said with a smile, pulling Sherlock over to the opening in the side of the rink so they could sit down on the bench. He pulled his leg up to his lap so he could start yanking off his trainers. There were little shelves that people were putting their shoes in, so John put his in the bottom slot before returning to his friend.

"After this, we should go back," he said, and if there was a little sadness in his voice, he didn't bother hiding it. He knew that they had already pressed their time together quite a lot and surely Sherlock’s parents (or John's) would say it was time to go home.

He wouldn't say it so freely, but it might have been just the best night of his life.

After the skates were secured tightly on his feet, (so tight actually that his ankles nearly throbbed) and stood up shakily.

"Now I have to trust you," he said with a smirk. "Or we'll just have to work together. You lead, and I'll tell you if the path is clear, 'kay?"

 

Sherlock stepped into his own shoes while John was talking, and he nodded in agreement. They did need to be heading back, even though he didn't want to. He wanted to do more things with John, even if it was as simple as going back to the park, sitting in the sandbox  and building a castle with a moat and a pirate ship.

Once his shoes were on, Sherlock took John's hand and wrapped his other arm around John's back from behind, helping him to walk onto the ice. Sherlock nearly slipped himself the first step he took, but he tightened his grip on John and elected to take smaller steps as they moved.

For a moment--only a moment, though--Sherlock wished he wasn't leading John. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but he was worried that he wouldn't be good enough at it. What if something happened and John got hurt? What if John wasn't able to warn him about something soon enough, and they both fell and then got trampled by the other skaters?

Obviously it wasn't likely to happen, but Sherlock didn't want to rule anything out.

"Make sure you hold on to the wall," Sherlock told John. "I don't want you to fall because of me."

Each step Sherlock took was calculated and small, but he was trying to not be too obvious about that.

"Are we still going to talk Thursday nights?"

Sherlock hoped so. He was glad that he'd got to see John and spend the weekend with him, but he wanted to make sure that they were still going to be able to talk once they couldn't see each other anymore. Ideally, he would be given a mobile phone, and John as well, but the chances of that happening, he knew, were slim to none.

"Oh, and don't forget about my birthday. It's on January sixth. I'll try to have a party, just so you can come."

 

John immediately smiled when Sherlock reminded him of his birthday. Surely his mum and dad would let him come over for that, and that was only a few weeks away, (even if it felt longer) so he would get to see Sherlock soon.

"Of course we'll still talk Thursday nights," he said, lifting his gaze to the other side of the rink, where a boy and a girl were sneaking kisses to each other in-between giggles. "I'll make sure the phone stays in my room, right under my pillow so I hear it if I fall asleep."

He really wanted a phone of his own, so that wouldn't be a problem, but he already knew his mum would say no, and probably tell him he was too young for one.

John didn't know what age had to do with talking on the phone, but that was probably one of those adults 'rules' he didn't understand.

"You're doing good," he told Sherlock, as they began to skate along the outer edge of the rink. "Is it scary? Skating, while not seeing anything? I feel like it would be, but don't worry. I did promise I wouldn't let anything happen. Oh! By the way, what do you want for your birthday? I don't have my own money, but I can ask mum and dad and maybe they'll let me get you something."

 

Sherlock shook his head. It wasn't _really_ scary to skate while he couldn't see anything, but he was getting more and more used to being blind. He still didn't like it, and there were still times when he got a bit...nervous. But he was doing his best to not be scared. Mycroft told him--and Sherlock agreed--that being scared wouldn't do anybody any good.

"You could try shutting your eyes," he suggested. "Just look around, first, to make sure no-one's coming, since I won't be able to."

Someone could easily skate right up behind them and, being unable to stop, knock into them. Or John could fall, or Sherlock, and, as happened before, that would make both of them fall.

Sherlock didn't know _what_ he wanted for his birthday. He had a few things on his list, but they weren't things that John would be able to bring him. Not only were they expensive, but some of the things just couldn't be bought at the local toy store.

"I asked for a few things," he answered, taking another step and listening carefully so he could hear John's skate scraping across the ice. "A new microscope...a mobile phone...oh, some chemistry textbooks that are in braille, so I can read them...a puppy, I asked for a puppy...a violin. I want to learn how to play. Oh, and I asked for those things for Christmas, too. My parents will buy some for me for Christmas and some for my birthday. If they buy any at all."

Sherlock assumed his parents would get him at least one of the things he asked for, but the puppy and the mobile phone weren't likely.

"Maybe, if I tell them they don't have to get me anything, they'll let you come over again. For the entire weekend, Friday to Sunday night. That would be a lot of fun. We could play with our Christmas toys, if we get any."

What he really meant was, if John got any. Sherlock knew he would at least get something.

 

John's face lit up when Sherlock told him that maybe he could come and spend the whole weekend with him sometime soon. Even more so given that Sherlock said he would rather have time spent with John even more than Christmas presents.

"I hope they let me," John said softly. "And if not, then maybe I'll just find a way to sneak over, like we said. I can throw rocks at your window and you can let me up. We can tell each other stories in the dark and nobody will ever even know I was there."

To John's young mind, it was easy. He didn't know the how's or possible ways, but God willing he was going to try.

John was nothing if not determined and just a little bit of an over-romanticizer.

After only another minute or two, they made their way back to the front of the rink, and John carefully took hold of the sides so he could pull both him and Sherlock forward and out onto steady ground.

"I guess we have to get back now, huh?" he asked as he took a seat on the bench. "Your mum will think I'm a bad influence if she knows your gone." He laughed a little and yanked off one of the skates.

"Like I'm corrupting you. Or whatever that is."

 

It all sounded great to Sherlock, John coming over to visit him and throwing small rocks up at his window, Sherlock hearing them and going over it, opening it, putting down a sheet so John could climb up...It wouldn't be a problem. He could hide in the closet or under the bed when Sherlock's parents were around, and the rest of the time they could play. They would have to do so very quietly, but Sherlock was confident that they could make it work.

It all sounded so easy. It was realistic in Sherlock's young mind, just because he was nowhere near mature enough to know that no part of the plan could actually come to pass, just because John couldn't get to him.

Once his own shoes were back on, Sherlock nodded. He didn't want to go back, but he knew it was time. The last thing he wanted was to get in trouble for being out with John, or to get John in trouble. If that happened, John probably wouldn't want to see him ever again, because he wouldn't want to get in trouble because of Sherlock a second time.

When John had finished taking off his skates and putting his own shoes back on, Sherlock took his hand. He remembered where they had come from this time, unlike in the woods. This time, Sherlock could identify where they were by sound and by smell; plus, he had been here on more than one occasion, and even if they did get lost, it wasn't dark and they weren't alone. John would be able to find their way back.

"So the movie was good, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked as they walked, winking at John so the other boy would know he was only rehearsing what he would say to his parents. "Boring in some parts, but not too bad. I've seen worse. Not that I could even actually see this one, though."

 

"Dreadfully boring if you ask me," John was quick to agree, grinning sideways at him and bumping his shoulder with his own. "Maybe the next will be better, though."

There. That way, if asked, they wouldn't have to go into too many details about a movie they didn't actually see. If it were boring or not too interesting, they wouldn't have to talk about it!

John didn't know why, but he liked holding Sherlock’s hand. So much so, that when they walked back in the direction of the theater and Sherlock's parents emerged from one of the hallways, (by such a stroke of luck John could hardly believe it) he didn't let go. In fact, there was a strange unpleasantness that settled in his stomach at the thought that he would _have_ to stop holding Sherlock’s hand eventually. But it felt nice, and it was comforting, feeling the boy's palm pressed right up against his own.

He felt his tail begin to sway back and forth in his trousers sadly, but he quickly willed himself to stop, lest he make anyone suspicious.

"Hello, boys," Sherlock's father said, when they all met in the middle of the lobby. John did his very best not to let it show on his face that they had just gone and had an adventure, but he was always afraid that adults just _knew_ somehow. "How was the movie? Was it a good choice?"

John quickly nodded, then looked sideways at Sherlock before using his free hand to tug at the cap on his head a little bit lower. "It was a little confusing," he said. "But I had a lot of fun."

Sherlock's mum smiled at him, (and John couldn't help but feel that each time she did, her eyes lingered a bit too long) before looking at her son.

"How was it, sweetie? For the first time?"

 

No clarification was needed to know what his mother meant by 'for the first time'. Sherlock knew right away, and it made him feel a bit--sad, really. He didn't show anything of the sort on his face (not intentionally, anyway), but he still couldn't help but feel dread pooling in his stomach, making him feel like he wanted to go home and crawl beneath the covers of his bed.

Or just get under the bed.

"Confusing," he echoed John's answer. "But I also enjoyed myself. John helped me to understand what was going on. Still, I don't think I will be in a hurry to go again."

Sherlock didn't think there was a way for blind movies to ever work for people who couldn't see. Closed captions were enough for deaf people, for the most part, but what could help a blind person?

Someone couldn't possibly just talk through the entire movie, not without pausing it over and over and over again to explain what was happening. They would have to talk over top of the characters, and then the person watching would be just as confused because they missed out on _that_ part of it.

No, Sherlock knew his future was going to be limited to books and audiobooks. He didn't mind, really. He didn't much care for telly in the first place, not anything other than a documentary and the occasional adventure film. He had also wanted to watch a movie version of Treasure Island, but the audiobook would have to do, now.

Because Sherlock couldn't see his parents' faces, he couldn't tell for sure if they believed him and John. Even so, Sherlock felt his father's hand on his back, turning him back towards the doors so they could leave. Maybe they had gotten away with it.

Once they were outside again, right back in the chill that Sherlock and John had just come from, Sherlock looked back at his father.

"Can John come over on my birthday?"

There was no answer at first, which Sherlock didn't think was a good sign. He hadn't thought far ahead enough to know that his parents could see that both he and John had red faces, obviously having just come in from outside, rather than staying in the theater and watching their movie.

Thomas looked at his wife, but neither of them knew exactly what to say.

"We'll see, Sherlock. John might be busy that day, or we might take you to France for your birthday."

Sherlock didn't even want to go to France. It was fine when they did, but given the choice between France and John, he would rather have John. The decision was an easy one.

 

John had been told 'no' enough times in his life to know what a long silence meant. In a way, it was just slightly embarrassing, having Sherlock ask if he could come over, only for his mum and dad to sound very...hesitant about it. John may have not been nearly as bright as Sherlock was, but he thought he was pretty good at telling emotions from people, (thank you very much) and he rubbed his palms together a bit uncomfortably.

"I'm never busy, don't worry," John decided to say, looking sideways at Sherlock. He smiled softly at him, even though he wouldn't be able to see it, and shrugged.

He didn't know why they wouldn't let John come. Unless they had actually found out about their little adventure(s) and had decided John was just too much of a bad influence on their son. That was the only thing John could think of, anyway.

But surely they would have said something if they knew. Surely!

He continued to watch Sherlock for a long while, and it was only after Mr. Holmes had cleared his throat from the front seat that John blinked and looked away, unaware he had been basically staring at the other boy. When he glanced up at the front seat, he could see Mrs. Holmes' sharp eye watching him from the rearview mirror and he quickly looked away, and out the window.

"Oh..."

He recognized this street; this was one of the ones that led to his very own neighborhood. He supposed at some point during the day or night, John and Sherlock’s mums had exchanged details on when John would be returning home, and he would have been lying if he said his heart didn't sink just a little bit at the sight of his own home, with a light dusting of snow covering the roof and lawn.

"I wish I could invite you in," John admitted softly. "But don't worry. Next time, okay? After your birthday, that is."

He made certain to include that little detail.

 

The ride to John's home was quiet, but Sherlock didn't really mind. He was thinking about all the fun things they had done, and how he could convince his parents to let John come over again for his birthday. It wasn't that much to ask, certainly not too much. All he wanted was his only friend to be able to spend some time with him; why couldn't his parents do it? Why _wouldn't_ they?

Sherlock wondered what John's house looked like. He knew it was smaller than his own, and probably--poorer. But what did that /mean/, exactly? Was it a dirty house? Did it look dumpy, like the ones in the bad part of London? Were the windows clean and the bushes trimmed?

They were stupid things to wonder about, but Sherlock was only doing so because he couldn't just look and see it for himself.

"Have a good Christmas, John," his mother said from the front seat, before getting up and opening John's door for him. She smiled at the boy and touched his shoulder, squeezing it. "Come on, I'll walk you in."

Sherlock didn't know why that was, but he assumed it was just what parents did with their children's friends, in case something happened to them on the way to their house.

Sherlock waved, looking towards John as he heard the other boy unbuckle his seatbelt and start to move. "Bye, John," he said softly. "I'll talk to you later."

By doing so, he meant that he would call John later. Naturally, he still had his number memorised.

Thomas watched as his wife walked John up to the door, and then looked at Sherlock in the rearview mirror. He wanted to tell his son to not get his hopes up about seeing him again any time soon, but the boy already looked so crushed that he decided to wait on doing so. For now.

 

John didn't know what it was that his mum and Sherlock's mum had talked about when he was walked up to his own door and ushered inside. Dad, he could hear, was in the garage working on his latest car, and Harry was right in the living room, lying on the couch watching telly while running her fingers through her blonde ponytail. She lifted an eyebrow at John when their eyes met before she glanced at Mrs. Holmes.

John, however, didn't quite care what it was the adults were saying, (all pleasantries he assumed) even though his own mother was looking down at him, scanning him in that familiar way to make sure everything were in place. Clearly, she seemed pleased enough that John was fully tucked away and the Holmes' family was none the wiser.

At least, he hoped that was what she thought.

"John," she said in a quiet voice, smoothing her hands down her front; a woman keen on keeping up appearances, despite everything. "What do you say?"

"Thank you for letting me stay over," John said to Mrs. Holmes. "I can't wait to do it again soon."

There. It was only slightly cheeky, he thought, but he wanted her to know for certain that John wasn't going anywhere. Not at all! Sherlock was his best friend. His mate, his captain. He wasn't going to let one little adventure be the reason he didn't get to see him.

Besides. What happened if Sherlock needed something? What if he got lost, or needed John?

It was a sort of loyalty, or perhaps just determination that he could feel down to his very core, and when John felt things, he tended to feel them deeply.

After smiling politely at Mrs. Holmes, he ran to his bedroom and pushed open the blinds so that he could watch the car in the driveway. He couldn't see Sherlock well because of the glare on the window, but he still stared nonetheless.

And even though Sherlock couldn't see him, he waved from his window as the car eventually pulled away and drove off the way it had come.

 

The next several days went so slowly for Sherlock. His parents were bustling about the house, running last-minute errands for Christmas, and Sherlock was left sitting in his room, trying to find something to do to entertain himself. For the most part, he just read and played with his toys.

Both of which would have been more fun if John had been there with him.

When Christmas morning finally came, Sherlock trudged to the living room and sat down, crossing his legs beneath his body. "Smile, Sherlock!" his parents told him, and then he heard the familiar clicking of a camera taking a picture.

Of course, being at home, Sherlock didn't have his sunglasses on. That meant that every picture he was in was going to have his cloudy eyes right in it, wide and alert, but blank.

The first two gifts Sherlock opened were braille books. One was Treasure Island, which he had, of course, already read, but would now be able to read to John (if they ever saw one another again), and the second was an old chemistry textbook. The third gift he opened was a new microscope (given to him with the promise that Mycroft would help him use it; Sherlock got the distinct impression that Mycroft hadn't agreed to that, though), and the third was something Sherlock hadn't thought he would get but had still been hopeful for--a phone.

He got a phone!

After holding it and running his thumbs over the keys, his father told him which each one was and Sherlock committed them to memory. There was a text-to-speech feature, so if he got text messages he could read them aloud, and so he would know who was calling him at any given time.

All in all, it seemed to be exactly what he needed. He could even use voice commands, in case he ever got lost.

"And here's one more thing," Wilma said, holding out a sheet of paper for Sherlock to take. He did so, feeling the bumps in it that she had made with a pencil tip, reading the number aloud as he did. When she saw his quizzical expression, she chuckled.

"It's your little friend's number," she told him. "His parents gave him a phone, too."

That was Sherlock's best Christmas present. Having a phone of his own was great, but what he had really wanted it for was to be able to talk to John. He'd been waiting for the opportunity, and thinking about John, ever since he had last seen him. As soon as he heard that, he found it hard to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the morning.

Mycroft opened his presents--a bunch of books on politics or linguistics--and then they ate breakfast. Immediately after Sherlock finished, he went to his room, ignoring his parents, who were telling him to remember that their extended family was coming over for dinner that night.

Once Sherlock was in his room, he dropped down on the bed, flat on his stomach.

"Write text message," he said, and then listed off the number he was given. "Save contact as John."

He waited a moment for the phone to load up the texting application and then typed out something very simple, but succinct. 

 

Hi, John. SH

 

Sherlock!! My mum told me you got a phone, too! Merry Christmas! JW

Merry Christmas. I'm surprised your parents got you one. SH  
Well, I'm surprised my parents got me one, too. SH  
Did you get any toys? SH

Harry and me got a joined present. Did you ever play with an Xbox? It's old, but it's fun. JW

I haven't. Maybe you can bring it with you next time you come over, if Harry will let you. SH  
I have to have dinner with my aunts and uncles later. And my cousins, and my grandparents. Yuck. SH

I don't like having big family dinners, either. They never talk about anything cool. Just politics or boring stuff. JW  
Is it hard to text? JW

Not really. I remember where the keys are, and my phone reads your texts out loud for me. SH  
Do you think you'll be able to come to my birthday? SH

I hope so. I asked my mum right after you left and she said it's rude inviting myself, but I said you invited me. Then she said your mum would have to say it was okay. JW

I hope she does. SH  
[Delayed] They know about you. I didn't tell them, though! I promise. They asked me. SH

Oh. JW  
[Delayed] What did they say? JW

They saw your ears at dinner, and they noticed you don't have human ears. Mycroft said he could tell you have a tail in your trousers. SH  
I think they all just think it's weird, but they won't tell anyone. SH

Is that why they didn't sound like they wanted me to come over? JW

Hmm. I don't think so. SH  
They know we went out in the woods, and they know we didn't watch a movie. I got in a lot of trouble for that. SH

Oh no. I'm sorry. JW  
I thought we were so careful. JW  
Well, with the movie thing anyway. JW

We were careful. My mother is really, really smart. SH  
Don't tell your parents we snuck out, okay? SH

Don't worry, I won't. I told her that we just played in the backyard when she asked why my clothes were so dirty. JW  
It wasn't really a lie, you know. JW  
I hope you didn't get into too much trouble, though. Did they ground you? JW

Yeah. I had to stay in my room. Which wasn't that bad, but I got bored and antsy. SH  
I'm just glad they let me text you today, though. Mother just came in and told me I shouldn't be texting you on Christmas, but I don't want to stop. SH

Christmas is the best time to be texting me. JW  
They say it’s the day you're supposed to be with friends and family, right? JW

That's true. I would rather be with you than my family. SH  
My parents are okay. Mycroft is too. But not the rest. SH

is okay sometimes, too. But I still don't want you meeting her. JW  
If you ever come over, I'll keep her away. She's too nosy, she'll just come around bothering us. JW  
She kept asking about you. JW

Why? SH

Probably because I've never had anyone to play with before. JW  
I told her she's got plenty of her own friends, though, so she doesn't need to play with you. JW

I don't even like girls! SH  
I haven't played with many, though. But they're weird. SH

I don't, either. They're always giggling about something. JW

Exactly. And talking about clothes. SH  
I wish you could come over for dinner. SH

What are you having? JW

Goose and veg. Bread, cranberries, pudding. All that stuff. SH

That sounds really good. We're having a turkey, but mum always overcooks it. JW

I would invite you here if I could. You could even bring your family. SH

That's okay. I wouldn't want them to come. Just me. JW

Well, I would not want them to come either, but I would invite them just so you could. SH  
We could hide in my room. SH

I would like that. I would like a lot of things. JW  
Someday we'll be old enough and won't have to ask. JW

And we can live together. You can be my seeing eye dog. SH

Hehe. I would be the best seeing eye dog ever. Promise. JW  
I would take you all over the world. JW

Thank you, John. SH  
Does it bother you when I call you a 'dog'? SH

Mm. Not really, I guess. I don't think you mean it in a mean way. Just so long as you don't think of me as one for real. JW

Nope! Only a little bit of one, but you're a boy, too. You're more boy than dog. SH

Yeah exactly! I only don't like when people snap their fingers at me and stuff. JW

Do your parents do that? And Harry? SH

Sometimes Harry does to make me mad. My dad, too. I don't think they mean it. JW  
Harry does a lot of things to make me mad, though. She's a brat sometimes. JW  
But don't tell anyone I said that, because I'll get in trouble. JW

I won't. Do you ever do things to make her mad? SH

Hehe. Yeah, I do sometimes. But only because she does stuff to me first. JW  
Sometimes I hide things from her. One time I dug a hole and put her phone in it. JW

Ha! I like that. I'll have to hide something of Mycroft's in a hole. He might find it, though. SH  
I do things to make him mad, too. He looks funny when he's mad. At least, he used to. SH

He seems too quiet to ever do anything mean to you. JW

That's just what he wants you to think. He's actually really mean. Sometimes. SH  
He says I'm stupid. SH

Is HE stupid? You're the smartest person ever. JW

I know! He's not stupid...not really. SH  
But he's fat. SH

I don't like him very much if he's mean to you. JW

I don't like Harry for the same reason. She should be nice to you. I'll always be nice to you. SH

And I promise I'll never hide anything from you. JW  
Or dig a hole and put something in it. Hehe. JW

I bet you will. If I have a bone lying around, you'll hide it. SH

Well nothing of yours! My mum said I used to dig holes and hide things like toys. I don't remember that though. JW

You must have been a really little puppy when you did that. SH  
You said you get to go to school when you're older, right? Will you hide your ears and your tail? SH

Mum says I'll have to, but I don't want to. I think when I'm older I won't. JW  
Maybe we can go to a special school together and nobody will care if we're blind or have tails and ears. JW

I would like that. They probably make schools for blind people. I don't know about people with tails and ears, though. But if you're my seeing eye dog, they have to let you come with me. SH

You're probably good at research. You'll have to look for that soon! JW  
Are you going to have a cake on your birthday? JW

I will look for it. I'd like for us to go to school together. SH  
Yes. Of course. You said you like strawberry ice cream, right? SH

Strawberry and chocolate are my favorites, but I like to eat anything. JW  
I wanted to get you a present but I don't have any cool books or anything. JW  
I'm going to ask mum if she can take me out and get something. I hope your mum lets me come. JW

You don't have to, John. I just want you to come. SH

If you say so. JW  
I have to go eat dinner, now. I'll text you again before bed, okay? JW

Okay, John. If I don't write back right away, it's just because I'm busy. SH

Okay. I’ll keep my phone in my pocket all the time, so I'll talk to you soon. JW  
Bye, Sherlock! JW

Bye, John. Thanks for talking to me. SH

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all texting! I edited it down a bit, but there were parts that were too cute to cut out, or parts that are talked about later on, so I felt they needed to stay in. Next chapter will be back to prose :)

Hi, Sherlock. I'm laying in bed now. My mum and dad went to bed but I can't sleep. I keep reading our messages. I love that we can text! JW  
Sometimes Harry puts her friends as funny names, but I couldn't think of one for you. JW

I am glad we can text too. I like calling you too, but texting can be easier. Even though I can't see. SH  
Hmmm. I can't think of any funny name for me either. Sherlock is already a funny name, but I like it. Do you want one? SH

Mm, if I do, you have to think of it yourself. I'm going to just put you in as 'Sherlock', for now. I like the way it looks. JW  
What are you doing? JW

I'm in bed too. I've found a few of your hairs. SH  
Well, your fur-hairs. I got a braille copy of Treasure Island for Christmas. We can read it next time we're together. SH

Oh, sorry. My tail sheds sometimes. The fur is sort of long. I'll make sure to cut it before our next sleepover. JW  
I wish I was there now. You're comfortable sleeping next to. Is that weird? JW

No! You don't have to cut it. It's fine. I don't mind picking them up. SH  
You're comfortable to sleep with, too. I wish you were still here. Or that you lived with me.  I'd share my room with you. SH

Do you think I'll ever be able to live without tucking it away? Mum says people won't accept it. Do you think it's true? JW

Hmm. Maybe if more people had them, you wouldn't have to. SH  
I would get one, if it would help you. SH

It makes me wonder if there are more people like me, only maybe they are hiding too. JW

That could be! If you could find others that all lived together, would you want to live with them? SH

I think I would! If they were, it would be so much easier. JW  
We could make our own little family that way. JW  
Not that I don't love my parents and stuff. I do. JW

You could meet a girl and have puppies. Ha. SH  
It would be easier for you, not to have to hide what you are. I would miss you, though. Hopefully I'd be able to come visit. SH

Well you would be living there too, of course. JW  
You and me would be the rulers. JW

Would they let me live there, if I wasn't like them? SH

They won't get a say, don't you worry. I'll say, it's us both or none at all. And if they don't like it, we'll go live on our own, in our own house. JW

Thank you, John. I appreciate that. SH

Talking to you is the best part of my day. If we live together, we can talk all the time. JW

Mine too. SH  
You have to get really, really smart, so you can go to the same school as me if my parents send me to a school for smart boys. SH

Maybe you can teach me stuff! Then I'll definitely be as smart as you, won't I? JW

Definitely. I'll teach you everything. SH

 

We could go to boarding school and live together. I'd like that. SH

Me too. We definitely need to do this. JW  
I'll start studying really really hard. JW  
I won't even zone out when my teacher talks anymore. JW

Maybe if you get treats at the end of each session it'll be easier. Ha. SH  
I've heard about people getting bullied if they're different. Beat up and stuff. Do you think that would happen to us? SH

No of course not! We're nice, aren't we? Why would anyone want to bully us? JW

I don't know. Mycroft told me it happens. SH  
You're right. Nobody would do it. And if they tried to hurt you, I could stop them. SH

Me too. I'll bite them if I have to. JW  
My mum says that's called a threat, but I don't care. JW

I don't either. As long as people don't bother us, they won't have to worry. SH  
Maybe they'll get scared when you growl at them. SH

Of course they will. Especially since I'll be older. I'm going to get really tall and have a big, deep voice. I'll sound like a monster. JW

I like that. And you'll be mine, so they'll be scared of me, too. SH  
Well not mine mine, but you know what I mean. SH

Like a pair. I know what you mean. JW  
I can't wait. JW

I need to go to bed, and my parents are going to take my phone since I'm grounded. They just let me have it for Christmas. I'll text you when I can, okay? SH

Okay, Sherlock. JW  
Goodnight. Talk to you again soon, I hope! Merry Christmas. JW

 

 [Two weeks later] Hi, John. My mum said I could invite you to my birthday party. It's tomorrow night. My birthday was a few days ago, but they wanted to have the party on the weekend, even though you're the only one I invited. SH

Hi, Sherlock. What time can I come tomorrow? My mum wants to know. She said I can only come if I finish all my chores. JW

How about five? SH

That should work. What have you been doing? I wish you hadn't been grounded because I missed talking to you. I kept my phone under my pillow every night just in case. JW

I haven't been doing very much. Studying and stuff. I've gotten really good at my French. What about you? SH

Same. I've been doing lots of homework, which is really boring but I do it because I know it will make me smart. And then sometimes I play with my Xbox. JW

What games did you get for your Xbox? SH

Mostly shooting games. In one, I'm a soldier and I'm fighting aliens. JW

Do you think aliens are real? SH

Mm... I don't know. Maybe. They could be, couldn't they? My teacher said the universe is so big it hasn't ever been completely explored. JW

They could. I don't know if they do, though. It would be cool. I think they would look human, unless they live on a really strange planet. SH

Would you like to meet one? JW

Definitely. I would have a lot of questions for them. How they reproduce, how they talk, where they live, what they think of earth. SH

I would want them to take me into space. JW  
I think it would be cool to travel the galaxy and stuff. JW

I would too. I want to see the sun up close. SH  
I wanted to, at least. Maybe they could help me see again. SH

I hope doctors figure that out first for you. JW

Maybe someday. They learn new things every single day. SH  
I think my parents are going to watch us while you're here. They don't want us going in the woods again. SH

I guess that's good. I might have tried convincing you. JW  
Hehe. JW  
But I don't want you getting in trouble again because then you can't talk to me. JW

I had a good time in the woods. It was scary, but in a good way. SH  
It wasn't even that scary, since you were there with me. SH

Told you I'd keep you safe. JW  
I guess if we have to be watched tomorrow we'll just have to find something else to entertain ourselves. JW

My parents will probably want us to play games with them. They always want me to get 'involved' with family on my birthday. SH

That's stupid. It's your party, you should get to do what you want. JW

I know! I said that same thing. They didn't agree with me. SH  
I told them I don't want to play any stupid games, like pin the tail on the donkey. SH

You have to spend all week with them. I haven't seen you in forever! JW

It's been way too long. SH  
At least you don't have to tuck your tail or your ears when you're at my house anymore, since they know. SH

Oh yeah! I like that. JW  
It's really uncomfortable. JW

I can't imagine. I'm glad I don't have to deal with things like that. I hope you can go without having to hide them at all, eventually. SH

Me too. That's why we'll live together someday. You'll never care about it and I can keep them out all the time. JW  
And maybe scratch me some more. Because that feels good. JW

I'd scratch you as much as you wanted. I did it while you were sleeping, when you were at my house. It made your tail wag. Either you could tell I was doing it while you slept or you were having a good dream. SH

Really? I love that! JW  
Well, I mean I love the idea that you were doing it. Sometimes Harry says I'm too needy because I like being next to people, so I'm glad you don't mind. JW

Once my dad said that when I was really little I got out of my bed and stood outside my mum and dad's room crying because I couldn't see them. I don't remember that, though. He was just exaggerating. JW

I like doing it. I always thought I would be a really good dog owner. SH

I don't think you're needy. You like me and I'm glad you do. That's all it is. SH

Exactly. JW  
I got you something. I know you said not to but I did anyway. JW  
Well, I made it. JW

You didn't have to! SH  
What is it? SH

Sherlock I can't tell you! It has to be a surprise. JW  
That's the best way to get gifts. JW  
But it's a set, so I get part of it too. JW

Well now I'm really excited. I'm sure I'll like it a lot. It'll probably be my favourite gift of them all. SH

You better. I stayed up until midnight the other day making it, and that's really late! JW

I appreciate it. I wish you could come over now to give it to me. I'm excited to see you again. SH

Don't worry, tomorrow will come fast. JW  
Do you think I'll be able to sleep over again? JW  
Mum asked if it was a sleepover. JW

My parents say you can. Will you be allowed? SH

Yeah! I didn't tell them that your mum and dad know yet, though. I'm afraid they might get mad. JW  
But maybe I should... I don't know. JW

[12/28/2015 11:48:27 PM] s s: Hmm. You shouldn't. I don't want them to get mad. And if they know that my parents know, they might not let you come. SH

Yeah. It'll be a secret. JW  
We've only known each other a short time and we're already having lots of those, aren't we? Hehe. JW

Lots! I like it. I've never had secrets with somebody else before. They've always just been mine. They're more fun when you share them. sH

Ooh, like what kind of secrets have you had? JW

I snuck out once while my parents were at church. I just walked down the street and back, but I wasn't supposed to. Oh, and I've eaten food and then blamed it on Mycroft. Haha. SH

I like that one about your brother. That's so funny. JW

I've said bad words before, but it's not really a secret. I said it in front of my dad once and I got in a lot of trouble. But he was laughing first so I don't think he really meant it. JW

What did you say? SH

I told Harry to bugger off. JW  
Or sod off. Something like that. I was mad so I don't remember exactly. JW

I think that's a little funny. I want to tell Mycroft that too sometimes. SH  
A lot of times. SH

You should. But do it away from your mum and dad. JW  
Would he tell on you? JW

Yes, without a doubt. SH  
It might be worth it though, to see his face. SH

Maybe you'll get the chance tomorrow. JW  
But hopefully we won't have to spend too much time with your family. JW

I hope so, too. They're boring. SH  
My extended family will be here. I was hoping they wouldn't be coming. SH  
My mother just told me. Yuck. SH

I'll steal you away. JW  
Will they mind about me? JW

Yes. You'll have to hide your tail and ears while they're here. SH  
Well, they might not mind, but I don't trust them not to tell anyone. They all talk way too much. SH

I've never been in a room with a lot of people I didn't know. JW  
Are they nice? JW

Not to me. My cousins think I'm weird. SH  
They think Mycroft is, too. SH

Are they smart? JW

No! They're all stupid idiots. SH

Hehe. I like when you say that. JW  
So long as it's not to me. JW

Well, if I ever do say it about you, it doesn't mean I don't like you. SH  
Mycroft's the only person I know who's smarter than me. Well, and my mother. She's smart too. My father isn't. SH

I think my mum and dad are smart. They know about cars and stuff. Well, my dad does. I think that makes him smart. JW  
What kind of stuff does your mum do? JW

She used to be a maths teacher. Now she stays home. SH  
Not all the time. She'll go out and tutor sometimes. She likes to garden, too. And read. She's in two book clubs. SH  
I'm excited to see you again. SH

I am too, Sherlock. More than you know! JW  
I think about you all the time. JW

I think about you a lot, too. I hope you think good things. SH

Hehe. You haven't done anything to make me think anything bad. Yet. Hehe. JW  
Harry says I have an unnatural attachment to you. Do I? JW  
I thought we were just friends but she says it's not right to be talking about you all the time. JW

Hmm. I talk about you sometimes. I don't see what the problem is. SH

Good. JW  
Me either. JW

Doesn't she have anyone that she talks about? SH

Mm. A girl named Clara. But I never met her. She's probably making her up. JW

My brother doesn't have any friends. He just goes to school and then comes home. Sometimes he'll go to the library. SH

Maybe he has a secret library friend. Or girlfriend. JW

Eww. I hope not. Then he won't talk about anything else. That's what my mother says happens when you date someone. They're all you think about, all you talk about, and you want to be with them constantly. SH

Does that mean we're dating? JW

No, no. SH  
Does it? SH

I don't know. I've never dated someone before. But I think about you and want to talk about and be with you all the time. Isn't that the same thing? JW

Well that is what my mother said. And she's smart. SH

We don't have to be dates. But I wouldn't mind. Just so long as we get to hang out a lot more. JW

I would like to be able to see you more. Mycroft might make fun of us, though. SH

Why would he? JW

Because he's mean. He thinks dating is silly. SH

Well we'll date differently. We're better than everyone else, right? JW  
Not in the mean way, I mean. JW

You can mean it in the mean way. I don't mind. SH  
We would be better, definitely. SH

Then he can't say anything. We'll be better dates than he could be. JW  
I bet other people who date don't play pirates and stuff. JW

And even if they do, they don't have as much fun. SH  
I do like spending time with you. SH

You better! And just think of how much better it will be when we are older. Even teenagers! We'll be able to do all our own driving and everything. JW

That'll be great. We can stay together all weekend and our parents won't get mad. SH

And tell each other more scary stories. Oh, and we can even go off and have adventures in the woods and won't have to tell anyone. It'll be great. JW  
Too bad we have to wait for that. JW

I agree. I wish we were older now. I don't really like being a kid. SH  
It'll be fun to go to school together. And drive around and live together. SH

Me either. There isn't ever anything fun to do. And I have to wait for my mum or dad to tell me what to do. I hate it. JW

[Delayed] I am really, really excited to see you. You should get your chores down and come over early. SH

 

I will. I'm gonna do them all tonight and ask mum if I can come in the afternoon. Is that okay? JW

Yes! Yes, that's good. Are you going to stay up late doing them? SH

Yeah. Mum wants me to clean out my closet and drawers and everything. JW  
It's boring. I don't like chores. JW  
But I'll do them extra good so she lets me come early. JW

I would help you if I could. I don't like chores, either. SH  
I don't have to do as many now, since I can't see. SH

You wouldn't have to help. Just sit on my bed and talk to me while I did them. That would be good enough. JW  
I might make you tell me stories though. JW

I can do that. I got a braille copy of Treasure Island. It would be better for me to read it than trying to summarise it from memory. SH

How do you learn to read Braille? JW  
Is it hard? JW

Once you learn the alphabet, it's pretty easy. You just trace your fingers over the bumps to see what letters there are, then you know the words. SH

Does it take a long time? JW

To read, or to learn how? SH

To read. Like you have to feel each letter so it seems like reading one word would take a long time. JW

It's not that hard. It just takes a lot of practice. I'm pretty quick at it. SH

Because you're so smart. Hehe. JW  
Well, I haven't seen you do anything really smart. Maybe you'll have to impress me. JW

You mean I haven't already impressed you? SH

Maybe a little bit. JW

Come on. Lots. SH

Lots you say? Hmmm. JW  
Say something really impressive. I like it. JW

Well... SH  
Je ne sais pas quoi dire. SH

What does that mean? JW

It means I don't know what to say. SH  
In French. SH

Hehe. I like that. JW  
I laughed a little bit. JW  
You can be impressive without even trying. JW

Of course! SH  
I'm sure you could be, too. SH

Mm. Maybe. I don't know a lot of cool things, though. But that's okay. I'm happy with how I am. JW  
Just wait until I'm older. I'll surprise you somehow. JW  
Aside from the obvious. JW

Well, that won't be a surprise, since I already know it, right? SH

Oh. I guess that's right. JW  
My mum says I might go through changes when I get older. But she didn't say what it meant. JW

Did she mean puberty? SH

Probably. JW  
I hope so. Anything else seems too weird. JW  
Dogs don't have puberty right? JW

Hmm. I don't think they do. That would be really weird. SH

Really weird. JW

I don't think you'll grow fur. You'll probably just change like a human. SH

Do you think I'll have a shorter life? JW  
Someone said that dogs don't live nearly as long as people do and I got scared a little bit. JW

 Probably not. You look more human than dog. If you die early, you'll probably still live to be, like, seventy. SH

That's not so bad I guess. JW  
That's super old. JW

It is really old. Even my parents aren't that old. SH  
My grandparents aren't even that old. SH

I don't know how old mine are, but I don't see them a lot.  JW  
Will yours be there tomorrow? JW

Yeah. They'll probably try to hug you. If they knew you had dog ears, they would try to scratch them. SH  
Maybe. Maybe they would be scared. SH

I wouldn't mind that. It feels really good. JW

I know. I like being the one to do it, though. SH

Do it some tomorrow. Before bed, too. JW  
I'm going to start packing my overnight bag, too. Should I bring anything special? JW

I'll do it some tomorrow, yeah. When we're in bed. I'll pet your tail, too, but I don't know if you like that as much as having your ears scratched. SH  
I don't think you need anything special. Just you. Your toothbrush and pyjamas, but you probably already knew that. SH

I like my tail rubbed, too. Right at the base, it gives me shivers, hehe. You're the first person to have ever done that, though. I thought it would be weird but it felt really good. JW

I'll do that when we're in bed, too. Maybe it's not so bad that you have them, if they make you feel so good when they're touched. SH

Yeah, exactly. JW  
I don't mind having them. I haven't met anyone who was mean to me about it. JW  
Not that many people know. JW

I don't mind you having them, either. SH  
Do you ever play fetch? SH

Not really. I like to chase things, though. JW  
I love running. JW  
If I see someone throw something, though, I sort of want to chase it, hehe. JW

We can play, if you want. I've got some balls. And I'm sure there's sticks in the yard. SH

Can I tell you a secret? JW  
Sometimes I like to keep a little bag of bones by my bed. I like to chew on them, but only sometimes. JW  
Not big ones. Just little ones. They don't always taste good, but it's like candy sort of. JW

Why do you keep that a secret? Would your parents be mad if they knew? SH

Because my mum and dad don't let me do it in front of people. JW  
Sometimes I like them for snacks, so I keep them under my bed. JW

That's sneaky. I like it. SH  
Can I try one? I want to see the appeal. SH

Yeah! I can put them in my bag. They're thin, too, so they won't break your teeth or anything. At least they don't with mine. JW

Thank you, John. I probably won't like them as much as you, but I'm curious. I am always curious. My parents say it's exhausting. SH

Hehe. I'm not exhausted, yet. JW  
Maybe you're just too cool for them. JW

Definitely! I know I am. They would probably disagree with that, but I know it's true. SH  
Thank you, John. I'm glad you think so. SH

I'm going to take a picture of you tomorrow. Is that okay? JW

That's okay. Why, though? SH

In case we have to go another couple weeks without getting to hang out. I see Harry taking pictures like that all the time, and she says they're called selfies. She said best friends always take pictures like that together. JW

Oh, so we'll be in it together? SH

Oh, yeah. Well, we don't have to be, but it would be better than taking one of you just standing there, hehe. JW  
I don't like when people take pictures of just me. I never know what to do with my hands or how to stand. JW

Me neither. I normally cross my arms, but then people tell me I look grumpy. SH  
I'm not grumpy. SH

I bet you're never grumpy. JW

I don't think I am. Maybe I would be, someday, if someone made me really, really mad, but I don't think I'd ever be grumpy with you. SH

If you are, it must be because I did something stupid, hehe. I'll try not to, though. JW

I'll try to not ever be mean to you. I'm normally nice, but sometimes my parents make me do things I don't want to do, and sometimes Mycroft says mean things to me, and then I get mean. SH

Like when you called him fat? JW

Yes, exactly. Usually he starts it, though. SH  
Well...sometimes. SH

I think you'd have to say something really mean for me to ever not like you or get mad or something. JW  
I like to stay happy. JW

I'm glad. I think dogs are always happy, for the most part. SH

I asked my mum the other day about it, about why I’m a puppy-boy. I wanted to know if she would tell me more but she said 'not until I'm older'. JW

Why not? I really want to know. She should tell you. It's your history. SH

I know! It doesn't make any sense. It's not like it'll change anything, right? JW

Exactly. It's already happened. SH

Parents can be dumb sometimes. JW

Only sometimes? SH

Well a lot of times, but I didn't want to say it. JW  
Just in case they figure out I did. I would get into trouble. JW

You should delete your texts after we talk. That way they won't find out about your bag of bones, either. SH  
That sounds like something a pirate would say. Bag of bones. SH

Oh! Good idea! JW

You have a lot of good ideas, too. SH

Really? Thanks! JW  
I don't have a lot to do but play pretend and watch movies and stuff. JW

That's okay. I do those same things. Well, not a lot of movies, but I play pretend, read, and do experiments when I can. SH  
I made another scent. It's bacon and maple. SH

Does it smell good? JW

It smells great. Mycroft thought our mother had made breakfast when he smelled it. SH

I love the smell of bacon. JW  
Maybe that'll be the next perfume. JW

I might date a girl if she wore it, just so I could smell it. SH

Or you could wear it yourself. JW

Then I'd have dogs chasing after me, and you would get jealous. Sh

I might get jealous anyway if you go around dating girls who smell like bacon and maple. JW

I bet you would do it too. SH

Well…Maybe. JW

That means yes! SH  
We could date the same girl, but she probably wouldn't like that. SH  
I don't really want to date, anyway. SH

You can just date me for now. JW  
I'll wear the smell. JW

Okay, okay, I'll date you. SH  
That means we have to go out on dates. SH

That will be a lot easier when we're old enough to drive ourselves. JW

True. I really wish it was happening now. I'm not always good at being patient. SH

It'll come soon enough. Promise. JW

Well, at least I'll get to see you in the meantime. I'm glad for that! SH

Me too. JW  
I should go and start packing, though, and finishing my chores! JW

Okay. Hurry up. Come as soon as you can. I'll tell my parents to expect you. SH

I will! JW  
I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock! JW

Okay, John. I'm really, really excited to see you. Get here as early as you can. SH


	13. Chapter 13

John stayed up _late_ that night, making sure his room was cleaned to (near) perfection. He made sure all of his toys and books were nice and lined up on the shelves and his clothes were folded up and put in his drawer and closet, rather than strewn about the floor where he had a rather bad habit of tossing them.

His dad always griped about it, saying that if he were in the army, that would never be allowed, and he had it easy here.

But John wasn't in the army, so it didn't make much difference to him.

The next morning, as part of the deal, he had to go out to the front, all bundled up in his coat and scarf and help his dad shovel the snow that had settled in their driveway, which was annoying if just because Harry didn't have to do it, and she made faces at him from the window, nice and warm inside.

But for Sherlock, he would do it without complaining.

Well. Not much complaining.

He did want to hurry, though, because he wanted to get over to see Sherlock as soon as possible, and the quicker he got the chores done, the better.

In the end, John's mum agreed to bring him over at three that afternoon, after making sure his overnight bag was packed with essentials and that his tail and ears were tucked nicely into their hiding places.

"It makes it easy, doesn't it?" she asked him with a soft smile. "You don't have to do too much hiding with him being... Well, you know. But it never hurts to be safe."

John agreed, with a careful smile.

At three-thirty, the two arrived at the front door of the Holmes' house, John rushing up to the front door with his backpack on and a wrapped box with a bow on top under his arm. He quickly rang the doorbell and waited, breathless.

 

Sherlock suspected that his mother and father were inviting their extended family for their sake. He had made it clear that he didn't actually want them there.

Uncle Rudy and Aunt Gail, plus their children, Max and Jessica. Uncle Steven and Aunt Lisa and their children, Ted, Penny, and Amber, his mother's parents, his father's mother, and young Uncle Matthew.

Too. Many. People.

Sherlock helped his mother with the cake (which really just ended up being him sitting there and talking to her while she made it) and then tidied up his room a bit. Sherlock wasn't neat by any means, but he still felt confident that he knew where everything was when he needed it.

His phone was like a real clock, speaking aloud the hour and half-hour. He was _so_ eager to see John. Of course he had missed his friend, but he also wanted to know what John had got for him!

As soon as the doorbell rang, Sherlock ran and answered it, a huge smile on his face.

Unfortunately, it was his mother's parents, not John. He sighed and let them in, let them both hug him, but then went back to his room.

That happened another three times before, finally, he opened the door again and just knew it was John.

Mostly because he heard John's mother calling out to him and wishing him a happy birthday.

"Hi, John!"

Sherlock was grinning again. He reached out, touching John's shoulder, and gently pulled him inside.

"I think my family is all here already," he said, not even trying to hide his annoyance at that. "We can go in my room, though. Nobody else is in there."

 

John quickly followed Sherlock into the house and down the hall to his bedroom. He could hear voices from the kitchen, no doubt all of Sherlock's family, but he didn't care for any of them at the moment. Just Sherlock.

"Happy Birthday!" he said in a hushed voice, smiling at the back of Sherlock's head as they entered the bedroom and closed the door behind them. "Do you want to open your present now? You should."

Inside, was what John had been working on for the better part of a week, now. Because they couldn't afford much and John didn't have money of his own, he did what he could.

Inside was a pirate hat; large and black with all-black feathers (save for one blue one) sticking out the side. It was elaborate in its own way, if not just a little bit tattered from being put together with the things that John could scrouge for himself, patches of fabric. Next to it inside was a hand-made treasure map, rolled (a bit poorly) and tied together with a piece of string.

John set down his backpack and unzipped it before taking out a red bandana and tying it around his head, before snapping on an eyepatch.

"Okay," he said with a smile. "Open it up."

 

Sherlock had already told his mother and father that he expected John to come over early. He didn't give them a specific time, of course, but they at least knew to expect him before seven o'clock.

Once they were in his room, and the door was shut behind them, Sherlock turned around and looked at John, reaching out to take the offered gift from him.

Without hesitation, he tore open the box and reached inside. He held the object in his hands, smoothing his fingers over it so he could figure out what, exactly, it was.

The feathers were a giveaway. Sherlock's smile remained plastered onto his face as he put the hat on. He felt like a _real_ pirate, all because of John.

The other item in the box, well. Sherlock could assume it was a sort of map, just because it was rolled up and tied, and he pulled the sting off and held it open.

"Is this a treasure map?" he asked John. "Or is it going to lead us to an island?"

Of course it wouldn't really do either, but Sherlock loved playing pretend, especially when John was doing it with him.

After hesitating for a second, Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John, giving him a quick squeeze of a hug.

"Thank you for the hat, John. I really like it."

He wondered if John's parents had made him do extra chores to pay for it, or if he had used his own allowance, but he kept those questions to himself.

Sherlock crawled up on his bed and patted the mattress beside him.

"Come on! This can be our ship."

 

John smiled brightly, (a bit proudly) at Sherlock's praise of the gift, and when he hugged him, he felt a pleased warmth spread through him. Of course, before he could hug him back, Sherlock was pulling away, and John quickly joined him on the bed.

"The map is going to take us to a special island where we'll find our treasure," he said assuredly. "It'll be a long, dangerous journey, but we'll find our way, cap'in!"

He was very happy to be back with Sherlock again, back in his room, on his bed, and knowing he got to spend all night with him again made it ten times better.

"Too bad you've got all your family here," he said. "Guess there is no chance we can sneak out now, hehe. Someone will  notice we've gone, huh?"

Darn! As much as John wanted to go out exploring with Sherlock again, he really didn't want to get him into any trouble. He knew what would have happened if he had been caught, and the luck he had that Sherlock's mum hadn't told his mum was, frankly, a bit of a miracle.

But he wouldn't push his luck. Not too much.

 

Sherlock groaned and nodded his head. "I know," he agreed, sighing dramatically. He didn't _want_ his entire family to be at their house, but there was nothing he could do about it. Whether he wanted them there or not, his parents had wanted them, and that was really all that mattered in the end.

Unfortunately.

Sherlock wet his lips and held both of his hands up in front of his face, like he was holding a looking glass and peering around the surrounding 'waters' for islands, ships, or even mermaids or sea monsters. He knew they wouldn't actually see any of that, not in his bedroom, of course, but it was so much fun to imagine that he didn't care about it not being based in reality.

Imagination never was.

"That's the great thing about being a pirate, John," Sherlock said, smirking, as he pretended to lower his looking glass back onto the deck of the ship. "Our mudders ain't here to tell us what we can and can't do. Neither are our fadders, or Harry or Mycroft. Just the two of us, and we don't need anybody bossing us around!"

Sherlock couldn't stop smiling. He felt like a bloody idiot for it, but he was just so happy to be with John again. It had been less than five minutes and already they were right back to playing.

If he'd had a tail of his own, it would be wagging. He was sure of it.

"John, turn us to the starboard side," he instructed. "That means right, by the way." He opened the map and hummed as he traced his finger over it, pretending to be capable of reading what it said. "We're less than a day away from the island, methinks. What kind of treasure are yeh hoping to find, eh?"

 

"Only the best kind," John responded, coming up next to Sherlock and placing his arm around the other boy's shoulder. "We'll be the richest, strongest, most feared pirates they ever saw. The island is called 'Appledoor', and it's rumored to have all the secrets in the world! Think you can handle that, cap'in?"

He could see it in his mind, and his tail swished excitedly in his trousers. To adults, they would surely only see Sherlock's bed and his dresser and closer and desk... but to John, those were parts of the ship. The scent maker, (which John could smell bacon and maple the moment he walked into Sherlock's room and it was one of the best things he'd ever smelt _ever_ ) was a canon. The carpet was the ocean.

Maybe someday, his imagination wouldn't be quite as vivid as it was right now, but those were not thoughts that even bothered entering John's mind.

He reached on top of his head and pulled off the bandana, taking the clips out of his head and letting his ears perk up on top of his head, and he sighed in pleasure.

There were footsteps outside their door, heavy ones, and John could smell very faint aroma of Sherlock's brother, (which he only knew from the last time) pass by.

"Captain!" he urged in a hushed voice, whispering in his ear. "A mighty whale in the distance! We have to be careful!"

 

Sherlock could picture the whale perfectly. Huge and intimidating, the biggest thing that anyone had ever seen, bigger than any dinosaur or aquatic creature that had ever been known to man.

And it was right there, just in sight, making its way towards them.

He may have been afraid, a little bit, but Sherlock was excited more than anything. He wanted to see the gigantic whale (just as long as it didn't actually look like Mycroft), maybe even shoot a harpoon at it and kill the mighty beast. If they didn't kill it, it would follow them around to the ends of the earth, just like Moby Dick and his pursuer.

"We'll be all right," Sherlock assured his first mate. He kept his voice low, so the whale wouldn't hear them (could whales hear that far away? He didn't want to risk it.), but he hoped he was encouraging John all the same. He knew they would be safe. Their ship was large enough to keep them safe; it was reinforced and there were cannons and rifles.

"Draw a sketch of it. I want to be able to study it later on, but I've not got the time to do so now."

He _was_ a scientist, after all.

Sherlock could hear his family laughing from the kitchen. They were loud, as always, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Tell the crew to quiet down!" he hissed, waving his hand frantically. "They're going to get us killed, the lot of them! There be more than whales on these seas."

He leaned against John without even thinking about it. John was his first mate and he was the Captain. It was a natural thing to do when one felt comfortable with their friend, was it not?

As long as he had John, he didn't actually need the rest of the crew.

"Get them manning the cannons, too, just in case our friend out there decides to draw nearer to us. We'll need to show him who's boss."

 

When Sherlock leaned against him, John instinctively wrapped an arm tighter around his shoulders and patted him on the forearm with a smirk.

"Don't ye worry there, cap'in. He's no match for us!."

He turned his head, then, and shouted towards the window, where he pictured a crew of scruffy workers manning the deck.

"Oi! You there! Mann the cannons! And you! Prepare the sails!"

He paused, then, and looked up at the ceiling, placing one hand on his head to shield his eyes from the invisible sun.

"There's a storm that'll be rolling in, cap'in. Looks mighty dangerous. D'ya hear that thunder?  We're in for a rough night."

He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder again before releasing him and standing up on the bed, before (gracefully?) jumping down to the carpet, where the lower deck would be.

"Where be your weapon, sir?" he asked Sherlock, looking around wildly. From outside the door, more footsteps were coming and going, this time sounding like Mrs. Holmes leading people past Sherlock's door, on a little tour of the house.

"If we get out of this, if we survive this beast, we'll have to dock!"

 

Sherlock could hear the thunder rolling off in the distance. With each passing second, it grew louder. Closer. He could even feel the rain when it started to patter down on his skin, drenching his clothes. He was at least glad that he had the hat John had given him, to keep his curls dry.

Behind them, their crew--his crew, technically, but he didn't see any reason why he couldn't also lump John in with him--were yelling at one another at the top of their lungs, ordering that the sails be raised and the cannons loaded.

Sherlock reached down at his hip and touched where a cutlass would be slung through his belt. He would never be without his weapon, ever. Even if he had to just fling it around, using his ears and nose to try and detect where the enemy was, he would do his best to defend himself.

And John, of course.

"Make sure we--" Sherlock began, only to pause mid-sentence when he heard someone knocking at his door. He growled in his throat out of sheer annoyance, rolling his eyes as he got off the bed and walked over to the door. He opened it just a little and looked upwards, knowing he wouldn't be able to see whoever it was.

It was his mother. He knew it right away from her perfume.

"Yes?"

"We're ready to get started if you are, dear," Wilma said, reaching out to rub her son's hair and then looking past him at John. She gasped softly and moved her hand up to motion to the top of her own head, silently telling the boy to cover up his...dog ears.

She was doing her best to not be, as her husband put it, 'frantic' over it. They weren't a problem, really. John was a nice boy, and Sherlock had obviously taken a liking to him. They were just very, very, _very_ \--odd.

"Was this hat a gift from you, John?" she asked, already knowing the answer but still smiling warmly at him. "It's a lovely present. Did you say thank you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was one thing for his mother to embarrass him, but it was another for her to do it in front of John.

" _Yes_." He turned and held out his hand for John, snapping his fingers before quickly pausing mid-motion. "Oh, sorry, John. You don't like that, do you?"

 

Sherlock’s snapping didn't bother John too much, if just for the fact that he didn't take it personally, either way. He and Sherlock were in the middle of having fun, so he was still smiling from that, and while he didn't like that they were interrupted, he was excited to see Sherlock get to open other presents and eat the cake and whatever else food there was.

And then, the closer to night time, the better.

John was looking forward to that the most. Being in their little makeshift cave, telling scary stories and giggling and whispering to each other had been the most fun John had ever had, and he was very much looking forward to that again.

"It's okay," he said, reaching for the pins on the side table and carefully pinning his ears back down to his head. It was uncomfortable and he grunted a little in displeasure, but it was what needed to be done, after all.

He could hear a lot of people in the kitchen, though, and there was a part of him that was a bit... nervous, he supposed. He'd never been around so many people in an intimate way, in such a closed space, (shops and stores aside) and he wasn't quite sure how it would be.

Well. It could only be fun, of course. Sherlock said he had cousins, some of them close to their age. Maybe they would want to play, too!

He walked over to Sherlock and took his hand with a bright smile, before adjusting the hat on Sherlock's head.

"Come on, we'll be back to fighting the whale soon."

He giggled a little before nudging Sherlock. "I hear it's landed in the kitchen."

 

Holding tightly to John's hand, Sherlock walked with him to the kitchen. He could make out each and every individual voice, and already he wanted to turn around and walk right back the way he'd come.

If only he could.

As soon as he turned the corner and was seen by the other members of his family, they all whooped and cheered, greeting him with applause and laughter. It all made him want to cringe (so he did) and lock himself in his bedroom, alone.

Well, with John, but alone otherwise.

Rudy, Gail, Max, Jessica. Steven, Lisa, Ted, Penny, Amber. Matthew. Grandma Matthis and Grandpa Matthis, Grandma Holmes.

There were far, far too many people for Sherlock's liking, and, despite not being a coward, by any means, he wished that he could run away and hide.

"Come here and let me see you, cousin," Jessica said in her cloyingly sweet voice. She was seventeen years old, pretty but stupid (as Sherlock thought everyone was), and nowhere near as nice as she'd made her parents and Sherlock's parents think she was.

Sherlock ignored her.

He didn't get along well with any of his cousins. They ranged in age from seven to seventeen, and he hated them all. It _may_ have been because they hated him first, though. Sherlock wasn't the friendliest child by any means, but, for the most part, he didn't lash out until he was provoked, first. Sometimes he would make observations that people thought to be 'rude' (although they were almost always accurate), but he didn't do so maliciously.

He was just trying to show off.

"Who's your _friend_?" Matthew asked, leaning forward so he could punch Sherlock on the shoulder just a bit too hard. Not hard enough to get in trouble for it, but hard enough to let the boy know that he didn't want to be here anymore than Sherlock wanted him to.

"John," Sherlock answered. He walked over to where his seat was and nearly walked straight into his aunt's lap, as she was sitting in his seat. "His name is John. John, this is--my _family_."

If he hissed the word, it wasn't intentional.

Maybe.

 

There were many more people here than John had actually expected there to be.

And all of them were looking at them when they came in the room that John couldn't help but feel just a little bit embarrassed, even if it wasn't him in the limelight. It might have been exciting, but for reasons he couldn't quite figure out, John found himself just a little nervous.

So of course, when Sherlock went to sit down, (at the one next to the one he sat at the last time John was here) John was quick to walk over to his side. There wasn't any open seat beside him, as it were at the very end of the table and all the free ones were on the other side, but John didn't move to sit in any of them; he just stood beside Sherlock.

"Nice to meet you," he said politely, looking around to each of them. His tail moved cautiously, instinctively, and with a calm curiosity, in his trousers, but he willed it to stop.

There was a giant cake on the kitchen counter, but John could see Sherlock's mum bringing out other things, too; crisps and platters of cheese and breads. Some of the adults had glasses of wine and some of the kids had soda, (which were strangely enough in fancy-looking glasses, which John didn't understand).

In fact, all of the Holmes' family looked.... Well. Nice. Nice in the dress sense, in any case. The kids were dressed in dress pants and shirts, the girls in long skirts and blouses. John realized he was the only one wearing jeans and a regular t-shirt, which he had had on underneath his jumper.

From across the room, he could see Mr. Holmes' eyes on him, briefly, and when they met, he looked away, over to Sherlock's brother, who was also looking at John, with just minor curiosity.

The cousin known as Matthew was also looking at John, and at Sherlock, but John only offered a small smile.

"Do you get a lot of presents?" John asked Sherlock quietly, just so he could have something to say that wasn't to the adults. "When do you open them?"

 

John was being much more polite than he needed to be, Sherlock thought. If he had been at John's house and their situations were entirely reversed, he didn't think he would be quite so friendly to his friend's family.

He wouldn't be intentionally rude, either, but he wouldn't talk to them very much. He wasn't shy by any means. He just wanted to be left alone with John, even though he knew he would never get so lucky as to have that actually happen.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John (pretended to, anyway) and nodded. He got a fair amount of presents each year, some of which he wanted and some he didn't. The ones from his parents he just about always wanted, but his extended family wasn't always the best at buying gifts, probably because they didn't know him very well in the first place.

Those things usually went to charity.

"I get a lot," he answered, nodding his head. He smiled. "You can have any presents that I don't want, John. There's usually a couple of things."

This year, maybe there would be more than just a couple. After all, he wouldn't be able to see, so unless everyone bought him braille books or other things that he wouldn't need to be able to see for, John could have them.

Sherlock's parents set some appetizers down on the table and refilled everyone's drinks. He felt his father's hand on his back, gently rubbing it, and then his lips met his curls.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, just a little. Maybe it was because of his father, or maybe he just felt like being nice for a change, but either way, he was glad when his father stepped back from him.

While the adults and cousins talked amongst themselves, Sherlock scooted over a little on his chair until he was only half on it.

"You can share with me, John. I think there's room for us both."

 

John crawled up to the seat and sat down beside Sherlock, when it was offered. It was small, a bit of a tight squeeze, but not terribly uncomfortably so. Their thighs were pressed right up against one another, as were their shoulders, but John didn't mind.

What he did mind, however, was the way that Matthew was staring at him, from across the table. Nobody else was, but he was giving John, (and Sherlock) a funny look, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite figure out what it was. John wondered if maybe this boy were as smart as Sherlock was, and he carefully turned his head to the side and rested his hand on the side of his head, so not to draw too much attention to his lack of ears.

Sherlock said his family wouldn't mind, but they had agreed on keeping it... quiet. Under wraps, just in case.

The less questions the better, seeing how John wouldn't know how to answer the hows and whys.

After everyone had taken a seat around the table, (or stood around the edges), the lights were all turned off, (which John found strange, since Sherlock couldn't see anyway) and a glowing cake began to float from the kitchen, to the table, under Mrs. Holmes' steady hand.

"Haaaaapy birthday to you..." she began slowly, allowing time for everyone else to join in. John grinned a little and placed his hand on Sherlock's knee. He sang too, softly, but more so because he thought it would probably embarrass Sherlock a bit, and he found it just a little funny.

When the song ended, the cake was set in front of Sherlock, with nine candles all lit up.

 

If there was one thing that Sherlock hated (there were several things), it was being sung to. He despised it. He didn't know what to do with himself while he sat there and listened to people droning off-key, adding nonsensical lyrics to what was already a stupid song. He knew he had to just get it over with, though, so he focused on counting backwards from ten in German--the newest language he was trying to learn--while waiting for the bloody thing to be over.

He could feel the warmth from the candles that were just over a foot from his face, and he leaned over and blew as carefully as he could. One of his cousins had once blown out his candles and he'd gotten saliva all over the cake in the process. Nobody had eaten any of it. Not even Mycroft.

Speaking of his brother, Sherlock had no idea where he was. He knew he was present; their parents wouldn't let Mycroft avoid the party, no matter how much he may have wanted to. It nearly made Sherlock smirk, just thinking about how uncomfortable and unhappy Mycroft was to be sitting in the same room as all these people, all these idiots. As much as Sherlock despised it, he knew Mycroft liked it even less.

Once the candles were blown out, Wilma cut the cake into pieces and put them on Styrofoam plates to serve to each guest. Ice cream was scooped out (strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla) to each of the guests and then she and her husband walked over to the counter to lean over it and eat.

Sherlock ate his food slowly. The longer it took him to eat, the more likely it was that nobody would try to talk to him.

"How are you adjusting, Sherlock?"

Well. Apparently his grandfather wasn't aware of his plan.

"To what?"

Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about, but he also knew it would make everybody uncomfortable to have to talk about it so frankly. If it would get them to talk to him less or leave more quickly, Sherlock was all for it.

"You know what he means," Gail told him. "How are you adjusting to your ailment?"

Sherlock licked his lips and shrugged. "Fine."

It wasn't a lie. All things considered, he was doing perfectly fine. He didn't need or want pity, which was a good thing because he knew he wouldn't be getting any from his extended family anyway.

Uncle Rudy looked at John and said, with his ever-present lisp, "How did you and Sherlock meet? I didn't think Wilma and Thomas let him go out very much."

 

John looked over at Sherlock’s uncle as he reached for his fork and pulled his plate of cake closer to him before taking a single bite. Sweetness exploded on his tongue and the white cake with chocolate icing was probably the best cake he had ever had _ever_.  He even took another bite before answering.

"At the park," John said simply. "He got lost from his mum and I saw him, so I came and got him and brought him back to her."

It was the simplest and easiest way to explain their strange encounter, but John couldn't go around telling his family that he literally sniffed the woman out after catching the scent off of Sherlock’s shirt.

He smiled a little at the memory before looking at Sherlock. "It was a pretty strange way to meet, I guess."

From across the room, unbeknownst to John, both of Sherlock’s parents were watching the two boys talk to another family member. Mrs. Holmes seemed to straighten up, just so, and look as though she were trying to make sure nothing _too_ intimate was being shared with the elder relative.

John was oblivious to most of this, though. He didn't feel entirely comfortable with all these people he didn't know, but perhaps the puppy side of him was more ready to accept, in curiosity, all the new smells.

Well. For everyone except Matthew, who when John glanced up, was staring at him again, not even eating his cake so much, but just looking.

John shifted a little uncomfortably before turning back to Sherlock.

"Have you thought of any new smells you might make?" he asked with a grin. "We need to bottle up the maple and bacon one. We can use it as....as a sign, or something!"

 

Unlike John, Sherlock could just _feel_ people looking at the two of them. He obviously couldn't see it happening, but Sherlock had been around his extended family long enough to know that they were gossips and that they enjoyed finding things to tease him about. He did the same to them, though. Sometimes it was behind their backs, but...not always. Sometimes he said mean things, on purpose, just because he wanted to be mean to them.

Something about his family just made him mad.

The clinking of forks and spoons against plates was the only sound in the room, save for occasional chatter or the noisy chewing of his youngest cousin. Sherlock was quiet, making as little noise as possible as if doing so would prevent anyone from speaking to him for the rest of the evening. Maybe they would all just forget he was there.

Sherlock looked at John when he was spoken to by him-- _that_ he didn't mind, just as long as it was John--and grinned. They would definitely need to bottle up the scent! They could both wear it as cologne when they went out, in case they were near one another and didn't know it, or John could spray it when (and if) he ever managed to escape his own house and sneak over to Sherlock's.

"My mother has some jars," Sherlock told John quietly, lest his parents would hear. Fortunately, neither of them seemed to be listening to him. Instead, they were exchanging nervous glances, wondering if any of their relatives would suddenly notice that John didn't have proper human ears on the side of his head.

Or anywhere at all, for that matter.

"I can give you some to take home. As for a new smell, hmm...how about something...science-y? Something like alcohol and sulfur. It wouldn't smell good, but I want to see what a science lab smells like. I've never been in a proper one. My parents say I'm too young. I don't think that's true."

No doubt his cousins thought that was a very odd thing for a person to want. Matthew sneered and the others rolled their eyes, much as Sherlock did with them and their absurd behaviour.

"Well, if you've all finished, let's get the dishes cleared up," Wilma said a few minutes later, clapping her hands together to get the attention of the guests. Sherlock's uncle got up to help clear the table, and soon everyone was sitting back down and Sherlock had a stack of presents in front of him.

Not that he could see them.

"Open this one, first," his father said, holding out a large box to him. Sherlock took it and traced his hands over it, trying in vain to figure out what it was. He hummed and shook it gently, only to hear a sigh from across the table.

Mycroft.

"Just _open_ it, little brother."

Sherlock did so, even though he had wanted to deduce what it was, thereby proving to Mycroft that he was smart. He tore the paper off the box and then opened it, pulling out a leathery, very distinctly-shaped box within.

A violin case. He recognised it immediately, and with hands that were (slightly) trembling, he set it on the table and undid the latches, raising the lid to reveal the beautiful chestnut violin contained within.

And, with hands that were still shaking just so, he pulled it out.

"Thank you."

His voice came as barely more of a whisper. This had been something he had wanted, for reasons he couldn't even be sure of. It would be hard, learning how to play it without being able to see, but he would practice ten hours a day if that was what it took.

With a wide smile on his face, Sherlock looked at John. "How does it look, John? Do you think I'll be able to play it?"

He knew he would. He just wanted to hear John say it, too.

 

The violin really was beautiful, but John had to think for a moment, and he was quite certain he had never heard or seen one in person before. On telly and the radio, yes, but never right in front of him. He could smell the wood; a faint aroma of whatever had been used for the chestnut colouring and the leather from the case. It was a pleasing smell, as well as a pleasing sight that Sherlock made with it.

"Of course you will," he said with a nod. "I can't wait to hear you. You'll have to play for me sometime. Maybe even write me a song, hehe."

It was exciting to see him pick up the bow from the case, and despite both I and the violin itself being just slightly too big for Sherlock’s small, slight frame, John rather thought the whole thing looked quite...natural.

There were people in the room, relatives, that were holding up cameras and snapping pictures, some of them saying, 'look here, Sherlock; hold it up, now' or, 'can you move over a bit?' to John, so that he wasn't in the shot. He got off the chair he was sitting in and moved to the side so that they could all continue taking their pictures before beginning to push other presents his way.

John hadn't ever been to a birthday party before, but he hadn't ever seen this many presented in one place. There was no denying that the Holmes' family had money, the lot of them, and John couldn't help but wonder what they all had to do to make so much.

John sat quietly as Sherlock continued to open his gifts. He didn't want to be in the way too much and since it was Sherlock's birthday, the family seemed keen on watching him open everything.

 

The rest of the presents were fine, but none were as wonderful to Sherlock as the violin.

He knew it had been Mycroft's doing. He'd heard him speaking to their parents, saying 'while I am not looking forward to the noise, perhaps it will be better than having to listen to him prattling on'. His mother and father hadn't been leaning towards buying it, not until Mycroft had said _that_.

Maybe, Sherlock thought, he would go a day or two without being mean to him.

Or at least without calling him fat.

He got a stuffed bee from one relative--he /did/ like bees, but he was too old for stuffed toys, for goodness sake. _Sherlock Holmes_ was too old for stuffed toys.--and a few more braille books from his parents. His grandparents got him gift cards to the local bookstore and music store (apparently there had been collaboration with his parents beforehand), and his parents also got him a new pair of chemistry goggles.

All in all, it was an excellent birthday.

Once Sherlock had finished opening his presents, his parents suggested that everyone go into the sitting room for 'tea and talking', she called it with a cheerful smile. Beside John, Uncle Matthew chuckled and reached his hand out to John, placing it on his head and ruffling the hair beneath just as he began to say 'Don't feel like you have to tag along, Johnny. You kids must be itching to go play.'

He never got the words out. As soon as Mycroft, Wilma, and Thomas saw where Matthew's hand was going, they all widened their eyes. Wilma gasped, Thomas raised his hand whilst beginning the word 'No!', and Mycroft cringed.

It was all too late. Matthew's hand went right atop John's head, rubbing it firmly, and the bandana slid out of place. The man grunted, surprised, as the thin, red fabric slipped away, revealing a single pointy, furry ear.

The silence that fell over the room was thick, and Sherlock was the only one who didn't know what had bloody happened.

"What is it?"

 

John's eyes widened when the bandana slipped off his head, unable to even start to stop anything from happening, which had done so, so fast.

But it did.

While the room was silent, John was looking down at the red fabric on the floor, which might have been just as red as his own face. He could hear a pin drop, and nobody so much as breathed.

And then Sherlock spoke up, and John looked sideways at him. His eyes, grey and clouded, seemed to be searching the room, and John desperately wanted to go over to him, to take his hand, to ask him to ask his mum and dad to explain the situation because John couldn't. Because he didn't know _how_.

But... no, he had to be brave. He had to be. And Sherlock said they would all understand, right? He said they would be fine with it.

"It's... I was... Well, this is--" he looked across the room, at Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, at Sherlock's brother, all of whom were staring at him, waiting, and John found his mouth going a bit dry.

"Well, I'm... These are my...ears, you see? And... they work just like regular people's ears... maybe even a little bit better."

He tried to smile a bit, but the way Sherlock's cousins were looking at him, the way Sherlock's grandmother had grabbed the cross necklace she had around her neck and begin stroking it made John look back at Sherlock.

"Well... Sherlock likes them."

It was the only thing he could think to say, but given the silence in the room, nobody found it very amusing.

Not that he was trying to be.

 

Oh, no!

Sherlock knew what had happened as soon as John mentioned his ears. Somehow or other, they had become visible. His _entire_ family was staring at John's ears in shock, wondering what they were and how the boy had come into possession of them.

Oh, no, no, no!

Sherlock's little heart started to beat quickly in his chest. He wet his lips, which had suddenly gone dry, and cleared his throat, glancing around even though he couldn't see a bloody thing. He wanted to know what his family was thinking, what they were going to do once they left, if they were going to tell anyone about John.

No! That couldn't happen. Nobody could know about him, because if they did, people might go to John's house and take him away. Experiment on him. Kill him.

Sherlock took John's hand in his own and stood up. The only other thing he carried with him was his violin; he didn't want to leave that around his family members. They were all idiots and couldn't be trusted to keep it safe.

He pulled John down towards his room just as people started speaking again in hushed tones. The only one that was decipherable was Jessica, saying 'Of course he'd have a freaky friend! He _is_ a freak!'

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had been called a freak by her or his other cousins, but it was the first time it bothered him. More to the point, it bothered him that she was saying it about John.

Once they were in his room, Sherlock shut the door and leaned against it. He frowned.

"My parents are going to make you leave," he told John. There was no nice way to go about saying that, but Sherlock still tried to speak as gently as he could. "I know they are. They...they don't do well with people not liking things they do."

It was the reason that he and Mycroft were homeschooled, wasn't it? His parents didn't want anyone to know about their _unusual_ children.

John was even more unusual, and he wasn't even theirs.

 

John followed Sherlock quickly into his bedroom. When the door was closed behind them, John leaned up against it and stared at Sherlock. He wasn't smiling any longer, or grinning, but his heart was beating harder and faster and he quickly grabbed the pins from the side table so he could put his ears down against his head with, admittedly, shaking fingers.

"It's... Well, it's... Maybe not... I mean, they like me, don't they? I helped your mum find you.... they wouldn't make me go home, right? They like me."

He smiled at Sherlock, though he himself was feeling more nervous than he was allowing to let on. Having everyone stare at him wasn't something he had ever expected not to happen, but... the way their faces spoke for them wasn't something John found...good. Nobody had ever known about him before.. His parents. Harry. His teacher..., and then Sherlock and his mum and dad. He never knew what it was like to be faced with such confrontation.

"Here... Here, come on... Let's play," he said distractedly. He took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it before he guided him over to the scent machine. "We can bottle up a smell, and we can use it for our island..."

He could hear footsteps outside the room, many of them, and some would pass by, others were stopping and lingering by the door.  John kept his eyes on Sherlock and ran his tongue over his lower lip.

"Do you... want to put your hat back on?"

 

Sherlock wanted to play. He really, truly did. And yet, he also didn't. He knew his heart wouldn't be in it, not with his family pacing back and forth right outside the door.

This was bad. Sherlock felt horrible for inviting John to his party at all. He'd wanted John there, very much so, and he was so happy when he had been able to come...but now _this_ had happened. What if somebody talked? What if somebody told somebody else about John, and John got in trouble?

Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe caring wasn't an advantage, and having friends was a bad idea. He'd told Sherlock before that friends were more trouble than they were worth, and while Sherlock hadn't thought that was true when he met John, now he was having doubts.

He still thought John was worth it, to him, but maybe he wasn't worth it to John. If John got in trouble, or sent away, or killed, his little birthday party certainly would not be worth it.

"I'm sorry, John."

It was all his fault, wasn't it? If Sherlock hadn't been so selfish, if he'd not invited John to his party, this wouldn't have happened. He shouldn't have been so stupid; he should have been smarter and thought ahead, thought about what could happen.

What _had_ happened.

Of course John had wanted to come to his party, but...it had been Sherlock's responsibility to keep him safe from his family. It had been his responsibility and he had _failed_.

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he reached out and took his hat from off the bed. This time, it wasn't due to excitement, as it had been when he'd opened the violin. This time, it was guilt--fear. Sherlock didn't trust his family in the slightest; they would tell people about John and then John would be tortured, experimented on, and die.

The boy bit down on his lower lip, hard, just to try and stop it from shaking. He should have listened to Mycroft. He should have known that it was a bad idea to have friends; he should never have even tried.

There was a soft knocking on the door, then his father's voice. "John, son, we think it might be best if we took you home, now. It's all right; you aren't in trouble...we don't want you to be uncomfortable the rest of the evening."

That wasn't it, and Sherlock knew it. They wanted John to go for their own sake, not for his.

Taking a step forward, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and squeezed him. He even kissed his cheek, like his father and mother sometimes made him do to them. Apparently people liked it. His eyes were misting up, just a little, but he blinked it away as best as he could.

Softly, he said again, "Sorry, John."

Sorry for embarrassing him? Sorry for ensuring his _death_? Sherlock didn't know what, exactly, he was apologising for. Maybe for all of it.

 

John didn't want to go. He didn't! No... No, no... this wasn't fair. John had been....he'd been looking forward to this day for weeks. He'd stayed up all night making Sherlock his hat, the treasure map. He'd looked up new stories they could tell each other, Sherlock was going to scratch his head and his ears and pet his tail. John was supposed to hold him all tight when they went to bed again and keep him warm and safe. They were supposed to wake up and have a big breakfast before going off on another adventure...

No!

"I... Do I have to...?"

His voice was soft; quiet and a bit telling of his emotion. His tail, inside his trousers, was wagging slowly, but not in pleasure. In fact, when he heard another persistent knock on the door, it began to retreat between his legs embarrassingly, in a way it didn't normally do unless he got into trouble at home.

"Maybe... Maybe they can explain. Maybe I can explain to your family... Maybe they'll understand. Let me come back tomorrow..."

He wrung his hands together and watched Sherlock. He could see how upset Sherlock was, and it was only serving to make John more upset.

This was Sherlock's birthday! He shouldn't have to send his friend home at his own birthday party!

John couldn't stop the quiet whine that escaped the back of his throat, the soft, animalistic cry when he heard Sherlock's mother begin to try opening the door.

"Will you... Well... You'll text me again, won't you? Of course that will be okay. You'll call me and...tomorrow I can come back?"

 

Tomorrow, John would probably be dead. His family would go out and tell their friends and neighbours, tell the media, tell anyone who would listen about what he was, and then people would find him and whisk him off to some cold and scary laboratory where they would cut off his ears and tail and study them, hurt him just to make him whine, stick him in a room with real dogs to see how he would react...

Sherlock's stomach was in knots. He felt like he could throw up at any moment, but pressed his lips firmly together to keep it down. When he blinked again, Sherlock felt tears drip from his eyes and onto his cheeks.

Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew his parents were mortified; he could hear it in his father's voice. They would take John home and then, maybe, talk to his parents, tell them what had happened, and then his parents would panic and cry because they knew their son was going to die...they wouldn't let him talk to Sherlock ever again, not for the rest of his (very, _very_ short) life.

"I don't think that's going to happen," he whispered to John. He pulled away just as his mother and father opened the door. Wilma could see how upset both boys were, and she knew why. Sherlock had already worked everything out in his little head, knowing that he wouldn't be able to see his friend again, and she _did_ feel badly for that.

Just not badly enough to let her son continue seeing him.

"Come along, John," she murmured, putting her hand on his shoulder to coax him out of the room. "Everything's all right." She had already told the rest of their family, very sternly, to not say a word about what they had seen, to anyone.

Whether they would abide by that or not, though, remained to be seen.

Sherlock didn't say anything else to John. He had too many regrets. Meeting John and playing with him had been _wonderful_ , but it wasn't worth him dying over. Sherlock would much rather have never met John than send John off to his death.

As soon as his mother and father left his room, John in tow, Sherlock moved his chair to the door, tucking it beneath the handle so nobody could come in. He went over to his bed and stuffed his face into his pillow, using it to try and muffle the sobs that escaped him.

Mycroft was still sitting at the table. He watched passively as his parents walked through the house and to the front door with John, noting that the boy's tail was as far between his legs as he could probably get it. Nobody was speaking, not even the rest of the family, who were standing and watching, trying to get another glimpse of the 'dog boy', as they were already calling him.

It reminded Mycroft of a funeral procession.

After hearing the front door open and shut, Mycroft sighed and stood up. He walked to Sherlock's bedroom and tried to go inside, only to find that the door was jarred and Sherlock was crying on the other side of it.

He didn't knock. He didn't speak. He just went to his room. He had been right to warn Sherlock against having friends, and yet, for the very first time ever, he wished that he hadn't been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the final chapter of this part! The story is so massively long that continuing to add chapters here would be overwhelming, so I'm going to make a part 2, part 3, so on and so forth. Thanks to everyone who's read :)


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